


Nature of Trouble

by Celticgal1041



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Family, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-07
Updated: 2019-11-24
Packaged: 2020-11-26 11:51:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 34,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20929778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Celticgal1041/pseuds/Celticgal1041
Summary: “Life is a series of choices, some good and some bad. Many are easy because the right choice is obvious. It’s those that force us to pick between two undesirable options that truly test us. That is the nature of trouble.”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AZGirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AZGirl/gifts).

> This chapter marks the start of a multi-chapter story, which is a birthday present for the wonderful AZGirl. She provided me with a list of challenging (and unique) prompts, which have served as inspiration for this fic; I'll include them at the end for anyone who's interested. AZGirl, I wish you all the best on your special day, and hope you're having an amazing birthday weekend! Many happy returns, my friend.

"Wisdom consists of knowing how to distinguish the nature of trouble, and in choosing the lesser evil."

― Niccolò Machiavelli, The Prince

* * *

"This weather is terrible," d'Artagnan moaned as he lifted one edge of his cloak upwards to protect his head and face. The rains had come just as spring had settled on Paris, turning the dirt into mud and the cobblestones into treacherous surfaces akin to ice. Not only was the immense amount of moisture too much for the hard ground to soak up, but the cool days of early spring left everyone half frozen.

Athos threw a sideways glance in the Gascon's direction, thinking he'd heard something, but unable to discern the words over the driving winds that drove the rain in torrents against their leathers, making them wet and heavy. Seeing the young man's face turned downwards, he tugged the brim of his hat further down in a vain attempt to cover his face.

Aramis and Porthos trudged next to the older man, their misery clear in their expressions. The sun had barely been up when they'd been rousted from their beds with an urgent summons from Treville. They were to present themselves at the palace at once, and not even Porthos' whining convinced Athos to allow them time for breakfast. Instead, they'd set out hungry and somewhat bleary-eyed, into the rainswept sweets of the city.

"Remind me again why we ain't on horseback?" Porthos asked, his voice raised to be heard above the intemperate conditions.

The question set Athos' teeth on edge, and he gritted them as his eyes rolled upwards, silently praying for the strength to deal with the too frequently asked question. "Because," he began. "We've already had four horses fall lame because they can't keep their footing on these cobblestones. With the number already diverted to the war effort, we can scant afford to have more of the poor beasts succumb to the treacherous conditions here."

Porthos grunted in reply, already having known the answer but feeling the need to express his displeasure regardless. "No exception even for the captain of the Musketeers?" he teased, his lips slightly upturned with mirth. The glare he received in reply made the amusement drop from his face as he refocused on the simple act of walking against the fierce winds.

Aramis glanced in the larger man's direction, a look of admonishment on his face. Porthos shrugged in reply, grimacing a moment later when the action allowed some of the cold rainwater to slip down the back of his neck.

As the wet, rainy days had accumulated, tempers had grown shorter and shorter. Despite the men being as close as family, the endless hours of cold and gloom had worn on all of them and Athos, as their commander, had become especially brusque. With little patience left to speak of, teasing the man amounted to poking a bear with a sore paw.

Trying to lighten the mood, Aramis noted with a grin, "These new boots of mine have done an excellent job of standing up to these damp conditions."

This time it was d'Artagnan who glared, causing the marksman's expression to drop and turn his face away. The Gascon had never had very much money, but his Musketeer income had been enough to afford the necessities and put a little aside as savings each month. That had changed when he'd married Constance. Now there were two of them relying on his stipend, and despite the accommodation they shared at the garrison, their combined expenses stretched their limited means.

The result was that d'Artagnan made do whenever possible, delaying replacing things until there was absolutely no hope of repairing them. His latest casualty was his boots. He'd hoped to be able to get through the spring and summer with them, replacing them before the first winter snows in late fall. Sadly, Mother Nature had laughed at his plans by soaking the city in more rain than anyone could ever remember falling in so short a time.

His boots had held up relatively well during the first few days, the leather damp and cold, but his feet remaining dry. By the end of the first week of torrential downpours, his right foot was uncomfortably wet, which was still an improvement over what he was dealing with today. After almost two full weeks of wet weather, d'Artgnan wondered if he'd be better off simply going barefoot. His feet squished uncomfortably with each step, and he'd be pouring water out of both boots once he got a chance to finally take them off.

Needing a distraction from his misery, d'Artagnan asked, "Any idea why we've been summoned?"

Athos' stern expression communicated clearly that he knew nothing more than what he'd been told earlier, along with his obvious displeasure at being questioned once more. Thinning his lips, he replied. "The _minister_," he began, stressing Treville's title, "doesn't have to share his reasons when requesting our presence. It's rather a perk of the role, don't you think?" His words were unusually sharp and dripped with sarcasm, warning the others that he was reaching the end of his tolerance.

"Right," d'Artagnan managed, a contrite look on his face. "Of course, forget I asked."

Seeing the Gascon's face drop, Athos sighed as he swallowed a flash of guilt. d'Artagnan was no longer a young, immature boy. He'd been to war and, most importantly, had survived. It did not become him to pose such stupid questions. Athos might have tried to find a way to say so to the younger man, but Porthos' words interrupted anything he might offer.

"Thank God, we've made it," he exclaimed in relief as he ducked through the open double doors and into the main entranceway of the palace. Removing his hat from his head, he immediately swung it back and forth, sending water spraying several feet in front of and behind him.

"Porthos, stop!" Aramis cried as he caught the spray from the larger man's hat in the face.

Porthos spun in place to see the other men standing behind him. Grinning sheepishly, he said, "Sorry, just excited to finally be out of the rain."

"Quite," Athos responded, removing his own hat and allowing it to hang from one hand, the water trailing off of it to land on the parquet flooring. "But we are Musketeers and not dogs and should conduct ourselves as such." The larger man gave a slight dip of his chin in acknowledgement of the admonishment that compared his antics to a dog shaking itself to remove the water from its fur.

Falling in behind Athos, but leaving several feet between them, Aramis leaned towards his two companions. "Not sure how much more of this Athos can take. We'd better be on our best behaviour until this rain abates." Both men nodded in understanding.

While they'd never use the word happy to describe their captain, he'd always treated them fairly and with respect, even after his promotion. The past two weeks had not only had an unfortunate effect on the streets, it had caused one headache after another for their commander. First had been the increased looting and general mayhem, as people began to act out as the endless days of rain and dark skies affected their moods.

Next came the food shortages, making a situation that was already bad even more acute as farmers' crops wilted and turned to paste in the unending downpour. That the Musketeers had been further hampered in everything they did by having to walk everywhere simply compounded the difficulties associated with carrying out their duties.

Somehow, Athos had found himself caught between the ire of the king and the troubles of the Parisian citizens, and the juggling act that ensued was more than enough to cause any of them migraines of epic proportions. Their captain had, however, simply soldiered on as stoically as always, deploying their depleted ranks where they were needed most, while offering astute, politically correct explanations to those who had to be denied. It was a delicate balancing act that required all of Athos' skill and energy, but after two weeks of unending questions and demands, the latter commodity was dangerously depleted. That was where the others came in.

Porthos, Aramis and d'Artagnan had taken it upon themselves to help out however they were able. In some instances, this meant fielding requests made by those not important enough to garner an audience with their commander. In others, it simply meant taking on extra duties to make up for their reduced ranks. All the while, Athos' mood worsened, but his brothers continued to do everything in their power to reduce some of his load. Forgiving him his ill temper was just another example of this, meaning that his latest outburst only caused them concern for their captain rather than hurt feelings for themselves.

"Minister," Athos addressed their former commander as the other three men closed ranks with their current captain.

Treville's face was painted with worry as he looked upon his four best men. His keen eyes took in the exhaustion in their features and the pinched looks on their faces that spoke of the unrelating cold that seemed to crawl its way into the men's bones as long as the rain continued. It didn't matter that he no longer commanded the Musketeers; he would forever think of himself in that role when it came to the king's regiment.

He hesitated for a moment, wondering if he could spare them the burden he was about to place upon them by prevailing upon the king for a different solution. Drawing breath to speak, he was interrupted before he could utter even a single word as the king swept into the room and stopped a step in front of Treville.

"My Musketeers!" Louis exclaimed. "It's about bloody time."

To be continued...


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inhaling shakily, he let his eyes momentarily close, realizing one immutable truth – he should have stayed in bed today.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the warm response to this story. I'm grateful for the comments and kudos, each of which put a huge smile on my face. Thanks also to AZGirl for catching my typos; all remaining mistakes are mine. Hope you enjoy this next part!

Treville threw Athos an apologetic look as he automatically took a step back, allowing the king to fully capture the attention of the men standing before him.

"I sent for you hours ago," the young king proclaimed, pausing momentarily to cast a look over his shoulder. "Isn't that right, Treville? Hours."

"Yes, Majesty," the minister agreed, choosing not to correct the royal's exaggeration. "If you'll recall, I informed you of the need to travel by foot due to the inclement weather."

Louis hesitated a moment as if to consider Treville's words, allowing Athos the chance to interject. "We are truly sorry for the delay, Majesty. Now that we have arrived, perhaps you would like to share the reason for your summons?" Athos politely prompted.

The captain's question seemed to bring Louis back on track, and he launched into his explanation with gusto. "It's absolutely devastating. A tragedy of epic proportions," he began, once more seeking support from Treville, who offered a nod in reply. "My father's portrait has been stolen from the great hall and I demand that you find it and bring the thief to stand before me."

Athos' eyebrow rose of its own volition, surprised at the nature of the king's latest orders. While he could appreciate the familial bond between a father and son, he was also fully aware of that the portrait in question was merely one of many adorning the palace walls. That the king would be so upset about this particular portrait seemed odd. Pushing the strangeness of the situation aside, he refocused on the royal's request.

"When did you discover that the portrait was missing?" he began.

Louis glanced in Treville's direction, and the minister replied, "Its absence was reported this morning."

Athos gave a nod of thanks. "And when did you last see it hanging in its proper location?"

Again, the king threw a deferential look to his minister, who once more responded on his behalf. "We can last confirm its presence last month when His Majesty hosted the Duke of Orleans for dinner."

"Do you know of anyone with reason to steal the portrait?" Athos queried.

Louis was beginning to look panicked at his lack of answers. Recognizing the expression on the royal's face and knowing well the king's default coping mechanism of anger, Treville smoothly interjected. "Your Majesty, if you will allow, I'd be happy to answer Athos' questions regarding the more mundane aspects of the investigation. I am certain that you have far more pressing concerns that vie for your attention."

The look of relief on the royal's face would have been comical had it not been for the fact that laughing at the king was a sure way of losing one's head…literally. "Yes, you're correct, of course." With a distracted wave of his hand, Louis turned and left the room, leaving the others bowing in his wake until he'd disappeared from view.

"Thank you," Athos said, grateful that his former commander had relieved them of the awkwardness of interviewing the king.

Treville smiled in return as he replied conspiratorially. "It's difficult to maintain a façade of concern when you know little about the object in question." His smile broadened for a moment as he noted how the men's postures relaxed. From his own days as captain, he knew the recent weeks had to have been difficult and he'd been reluctant to assign them to the issue of the portrait's theft. Unfortunately, Louis had been adamant, and the decision had been ultimately out of his hands.

"I'm sorry to have called you here for this," Treville began. "I suggested the Red Guard investigate, but the king would not be swayed."

Athos offered a slight dip of his chin, understanding well the position their former captain had been in, and the challenges of dealing with a stubborn and cosseted royal. "We understand and appreciate the effort," he replied. "What information can you offer that might help us identify the thief?"

Treville shook his head sadly as he said, "Very little, I'm afraid. While His Majesty appeared before you distraught, he rarely, if ever, gazes upon this painting. I swear the only reason it was discovered missing today is because the staff were instructed to collect some of the candelabras from the hall for use elsewhere."

"Which means that it could have been missing for days or weeks, without anyone being the wiser," Aramis stated with a sigh.

"Exactly so," Treville agreed. "Unfortunately, appearances must be maintained, and the king must be seen to make every effort to recover the portrait, even though he cares little for it."

Athos' eyebrow climbed upwards once more, prompting Treville to explain. "The missing portrait is one commissioned by Marie de Medici. Consider it a final act of will to demonstrate her control over a husband who by then cared very little for his wife, and even less about maintaining the fiction of a faithful marriage."

"I take it that was not the case?" Aramis asked perceptively.

"Not at all," the minister confirmed. "She couldn't even get the king to sit for the portrait, and the painter ended up using previous paintings as his reference to finally produce the one he'd been commissioned to create."

"A minor miracle that it even survived to be hung," Aramis mused.

"Exactly, and the reason for its placement in a lesser-used part of the palace," Treville finished.

"Any information at all that you can add that might help us?" Porthos asked, unwilling to accept that they had no leads at all.

Before the minister could reply, Athos said, "We look for those who would have an interest in it."

Treville's eyes sparkled as he grinned once more. "Correct. The painting itself holds no value. It wasn't even painted by anyone of note. So, you must ask yourself, who else would have reason to take it."

d'Artagnan had remained quiet the entire time, and he now wore an expression of confusion on his face. "But, if it's not worth anything, then why take it?"

"It may not have monetary value, but that doesn't make it worthless," Athos corrected.

The Gascon's face was pinched in concentration, as he pondered the meaning of the men's statements. Aramis and Porthos watched with amusement as the young man tried to figure out what was being said. "Feron!" d'Artagnan suddenly exclaimed, a look of triumph on his face. He glanced immediately at Athos, seeking his approval, and the older man nodded in reply.

"Feron," the captain concurred.

"Don't think we've ever solved a mystery this quickly before," Porthos said as he grinned widely.

"Solved, perhaps, but it's not that simple," Aramis replied.

"No, it's not," Treville agreed, his expression turning serious once more. "He's a powerful man and could make your lives miserable." To himself, he added, _even more miserable_. "He wouldn't have committed the act himself, so you'll need to find out who did."

Athos was pressing a hand to his eyes as he battled against the headache that had taken up residence between his temples. Dropping his hand, his tone was resigned as he said, "Not so simple, after all."

Seeing the weight of their most recent orders bowing the captain's shoulders, Porthos stepped in with a suggestion. "I'll check out the docks. It's as good a place as any to find men with loose morals."

Aramis nodded agreeably. "And I'll check some of the seedier pubs. You know," he began, winking at the brawny man. "The ones that won't even let Porthos through their doors anymore, lest their patrons lose their remaining coins to his cheating ways."

The larger man snorted, his lips turned up with mirth. The two of them turned to look expectantly at d'Artagnan, the younger man obviously wracking his brain for something to say. Seconds passed and then he enthusiastically said, "I'll head to the marketplace. There's plenty of people down on their luck who hang around waiting for an easy target."

Athos and Treville were nodding in approval, as the former was replacing his hat. "We'll be off, then." Seeking the minster's eye, he asked, "You'll let us know if you become aware of anything else?"

"Of course," Treville confirmed.

With nods in the minister's direction, the men retreated, making their way back out into the pouring rain. Squinting up against the downpour, Porthos muttered bitterly, "Hasn't improved a bit, has it?" Unsurprisingly, no one commented.

The men made their way down the wide pathway that led from the palace and connected to the rest of Paris. With a wave, Athos turned left to make his way back to the garrison. A few minutes later, the other three had also parted ways, each man heading to his stated destination. Above their heads, the wind and rain continued to howl.

* * *

He grimaced as his feet squelched uncomfortably with each step. d'Artagnan had managed to warm up somewhat while inside the palace, but what little warmth he'd gained had been quickly stripped from him as soon as he'd stepped outside. No matter how old he grew, he always felt cold if his feet were cold, and leaky boots made it impossible to retain any heat.

He wondered again how he'd be able to afford a replacement set from his next stipend and made a mental note to speak with Constance to see if she might be able to find a previously owned pair at a lesser cost. Shivering, he pulled his cloak around him more tightly, resolutely ignoring the water that dripped from his eyebrows and nose as he slogged toward his destination.

If his only issue had been his boots, he might have been alright, but it seemed that the unending rain had brought with it a multitude of other problems. He'd been nearly run ragged as he, along with the others, had taken on extra duties. As if that wasn't enough, he spent many of his off-duty hours helping Constance with her responsibilities, especially with the daunting task of finding enough food to feed the regiment.

His daytime activities should have had him sleeping soundly each night, but the relentless downpour had dredged up memories he'd hoped long forgotten. Each night recalled heartbreaking scenes from his past in vivid color: the red of the blood pooling around his father's body; the gold of the lightning that flashed across the dark sky as he pleaded with the man not to die; the brown of the mud that cradled his father's remains, the man buried for eternity miles away from his beloved home. It was a cruel collage of images that depicted his greatest failure as a son.

Each night, he managed an hour or two of sleep before waking up covered in cold sweat. He'd nearly perfected the art of snapping awake quietly, chest heaving almost soundlessly as he struggled alone to banish the residue of his nightmares. When he'd calmed sufficiently, he'd roll carefully to his side, watching Constance sleep until the first rays of dawn broke through their window. The result was that he was now functioning under an almost suffocating blanket of exhaustion.

d'Artagnan startled as he stumbled, his boot catching on the edge of an uneven cobblestone. He was grateful for the small amount of adrenaline that followed, bringing the world around him into sharper focus as some of his fatigue slipped away.

He'd arrived at the edge of the marketplace. It was nowhere near as busy as normal, many of the vendors having been driven away by the weather. The remaining numbers had been further diminished by the reduced amounts of fresh produce and other staples available for sale. Despite that, a fair number of people milled about, especially at the edges of the market, and he wondered at their reasons for being there.

Setting a slow pace, he meandered around the outskirts of the square, occasionally shaking his head or offering a brief smile when a merchant looked his way. While his body moved slowly, his eyes roved unceasingly, searching for the odd expression or quick, startled movements that suggested someone up to no good.

He was on his third circuit, having walked through one end of the market on his last pass, and now exploring the other end, when he saw it. The furtiveness of the glance as the boy checked to see if anyone was watching, followed by the lightening quick, bony hand that swiped two apples and tucked them away inside a threadbare cloak.

d'Artagnan knew he should do something, but the war and subsequent hardships had been difficult for everyone, especially Paris' poor. The gaunt features of the young thief tugged at his heart, and he was just about to turn away and pretend he'd seen nothing, when the vendor's shout alerted him that would no longer be possible. "Damn it," he cursed under his breath, his body already in motion as he set off after the thief. "I'll handle this," he called to the angry merchant, hoping his assurance would keep the man from attracting the Red Guard.

The boy he pursued was quick on his feet, despite his malnourished frame, and d'Artagnan pressed his tired body to move faster. Ahead of him, the young man moved effortlessly through the streets, causing the Gascon to momentarily wonder when he'd gotten old. Banishing the unhelpful thoughts from his head, he watched as his prey jumped over a wide puddle to land nimbly on the other side. d'Artagnan followed seconds later, cursing once more as his left foot landed squarely in the pooling water, his foot immediately turning colder.

He stumbled momentarily at the shock of it until most of the water had drained out again through the same holes through which it had entered. He shivered despite the warmth he'd built up from the chase, and swore to replace the old footwear by the following day. His quarry had zigzagged through the street, avoiding the few people brave enough to be out, and d'Artagnan's feet pounded as he raced after the boy.

He watched as the thief made a tight left turn, and he prepared to follow, moving closer to the corner building so he could grab its edge to help him navigate the curve. Moments later he was there, his left hand stabilizing him as he threw himself into the turn, only to have the same foot go out from underneath him as it skidded on slippery mud.

He had only a second to realize he had no way of stopping his fall. His momentum made things so much worse than if he'd been walking, and his feet flew out in front of him even as his back slammed towards the ground. He landed hard, his head flung back with the speed of his fall, and all the breath seemed to be pushed from his body.

He lay there stunned and covered in mud, gasping like a fish out of water. He squinted upwards through the curtain of rain, his hands feeling the cold mud that was steadily seeping its way through his breeches and cloak. Inhaling shakily, he let his eyes momentarily close, realizing one immutable truth – he should have stayed in bed today.

To be continued...


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Never had he wanted to be a man who wielded power without compassion or repaid loyalty with cruelty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to AZGirl for catching my typos; all remaining mistakes are mine.

Athos swept his cloak and hat off with disgust, the sodden garments dripping water all over his floor, even after he’d hung both on hooks to dry. He trudged wearily to the cabinet that contained a bottle of brandy and glasses. He smiled softly to himself as he poured a generous amount, thinking back fondly on Treville who’d left the fine spirits for him when he’d passed captaincy of the musketeers to him.

The first swallow traced a line of fire down to his belly, and he savoured the heat as it began to warm him from the inside out. The second and third tastes were smaller and consumed with less urgency, and he relished the feeling of tense muscles slowly unknotting.

Refilling his glass, he fell into the chair behind his desk, placing the amber-coloured liquid in front of him. God, he was tired. Resting his elbows on the tabletop, he leaned forward and cradled his aching head in his hands. He’d thought war was hard but politicking now that he was back in Paris was ten times harder. With a slight shake of his head, he marvelled at Treville’s ability to manage it so well.

Settling back in his chair, he placed a hand on his glass, turning it absently as he watched the light dance off the dark-colored tones. He’d been abominable to deal with lately. The thought brought a grim expression to his face, and he brought the drink to his lips in an effort to chase away the guilt he felt at treating his friends so poorly.

Never could he recall Treville being so ill-tempered and short with his men, regardless of the pressures facing him. True, the conditions in Paris today were unlike anything the former captain had had to deal with, but still, the man had somehow made command seem effortless. Pressing the fingers of one hand against closed eyes, he breathed deeply for several long seconds before allowing his hand to drop to his side. “I’ll have to do better,” he said quietly, his words for no one other than himself.

He knew the others would forgive him his transgressions, but that knowledge almost made his behaviour towards them worse. It was as if their clemency was goading him to be even nastier to see if there was any line he could cross that would make their loyalty to him waver. The realization sickened him. Never had he wanted to be a man who wielded power without compassion or repaid loyalty with cruelty. It was part of the reason he’d given up his title, finding himself completely incapable of any kindness after his wife’s betrayal and concerned his tenants would pay for his shortcomings.

He was no longer that man, he reminded himself. That version of himself had been broken, and he’d left him behind with the guidance and friendship he’d found in the Musketeers. Aramis and Porthos would deny it, but they’d saved him, and he’d worked hard to become someone worthy of their fealty. When d’Artagnan had joined their ranks, that desire had merely intensified when he’d suddenly found himself once more a big brother, this time to a hot-headed but kind-hearted Gascon. He was certain his own brother was laughing at him from Heaven some days at the odd twist of fate.

Where d’Artagnan might have been excused for initially following Athos due to his naivety or immaturity, that was no longer the case, and the young man was as devoted to him as his deceased brother had been. Despite Athos’ mistakes, his multitude of sins and numerous character flaws, the Gascon was steadfast in his allegiance and fiercely protective of the men he called _brother_. It was for him and all the others in the regiment who relied upon him for direction that he needed to do better. But mostly for d’Artagnan, Aramis and Porthos, Athos mused to himself as he indulgently allowed himself a last swallow of brandy. 

Pushing the empty glass away, he stood, girding himself for another soaking. He needed to speak with Constance and a half-dozen others about the state of affairs at the garrison. Forgoing his sodden cloak, he wedged his still wet hat onto his head, sighing deeply as he opened the door and stepped out into the cold, damp air.

* * *

“Unbelievable,” Aramis muttered under his breath, shaking his head at the sight before him. He’d visited several taverns before ending up at this one, acting on a tip shared with him by a man known to frequent the darker sides of the city. Now, he waited for one of the performers, a man who apparently counted more than just a penchant for the theatre among his skills.

“Absolutely unbelievable,” the marksman said softly to himself, unable to wrap his head around what he was seeing and hearing.

The marionette show was just beginning when he’d arrived, so he’d gotten himself a glass of what passed as wine in the establishment and positioned himself in a darkened corner near the back of the room. Absently he lifted the glass to his lips, grimacing a moment later as the taste of vinegar assaulted his tongue.

“Bad vintage?” a deep baritone asked from behind him, a heavy hand landing at the same time on his shoulder. Aramis jumped at the unexpected touch, sighing in relief a moment later when he recognized Porthos.

“What are you doing here?” the marksman asked.

Porthos shrugged as he replied, “Was told to come here and find a man named Lariviere.”

Aramis frowned for a moment. “I was told the same.”

“Trap?” the larger man questioned.

“Possibly,” Aramis slowly drew out the word. “Or it’s just as possible that we both happened across the same, good information.” Porthos raised an eyebrow at his friend’s comment, not needing to remind them of their typical poor luck. “You’re right,” Aramis allowed. “Best be on our guard.”

“You found ‘im yet?” the larger man asked, his eyes scanning the small number of people occupying the pub.

“Yes,” the marksman responded, motioning towards the marionette stage with the hand holding his glass of wine. “He’s currently performing.”

“Really?” Porthos asked with interest. “Any good?”

“I believe the appropriate word would be _unique_,” Aramis answered. “Watch,” he instructed. “The one on the left is supposed to be the King of Spain. The other fellow on the ramparts is a French soldier.” He fell silent as both men turned their attention to the show.

*“Well, um, can we come up and have a look?” the Spanish king asked.

“Of course not, you are Spanish types,” the French soldier replied, disdain clear in his tone.

“Well what are you then?” the king asked curiously.

“I am French. Why do you think I have this outrageous accent, you silly king?”

“What are you doing in Spain?” the Spaniard questioned

“Mind your own business,” the Frenchman replied. “You don’t frighten us, Spanish pig dog. Go and boil your bottoms, sons of a silly person. I blow my nose at you so called king, you and all your silly Spanish k-niggets.” Suddenly the puppet raised his hands into the air and let loose a loud raspberry, wiggling his fingers and patting his head in derision at the Spanish king.

“Now look here my good man,” the king attempted to interject.

“I do not want to talk to you no more you empty-headed animal food trough-wiper. I fart in your general direction. Your mother was a hamster and your father smelled of elderberries.”

“Is there someone else up there we can talk to?”

“No, now go away or I shall taunt you a second time.”*

Porthos was now shaking his head at the remarkable display, the dialogue leaving him speechless. Aramis turned to face him and smiled knowingly. “It’s been like this the whole time. I can’t honestly say I understand, either.”

The larger man guffawed as the sprinkling of customers broke into ragged applause as the show ended. “I see now why you called it unique. Not sure I’d have a better description other than saying it leaves one speechless.”

“Perhaps that was the point,” Aramis offered with a cheeky grin, lifting the glass to his lips before catching himself at the last moment, and placing it on a nearby empty table instead. “Shall we see if we can track down Monsieur Lariviere?”

Porthos made an ‘after you’ motion with one hand and fell in behind his friend as the marksman led the way to the improvised marionette theatre. Fortunately, it was easy to tell which of the two puppeteers they sought when one of them moved from behind the walls of the theatre to put her marionette down and go to speak with the tavern owner.

“Monsieur Lariviere?” Aramis called out to the remaining puppeteer. When recognition appeared in the man’s eyes, the Musketeers knew they’d found the right person. They moved closer, the marksman positioning himself in front of the man, while Porthos stood to one side and slightly behind their target, ensuring the man could not bolt.

Lowering his voice, Aramis said, “We’re here about a theft at the palace.”

Lariviere glanced between the two men, noting the pauldrons on the men’s shoulders which they’d ensured were on prominent display. “I’m a law-abiding citizen. What makes you think I know anything that can help.”

“Of course, Monsieur,” Aramis assured the man with a smile. “We never meant to imply anything different.”

“But for some reason, your name is known to some of the less law-abiding citizens of Paris,” Porthos stated, his expression far less friendly than the marksman’s. “Why do you think that is?”

Lariviere visibly paled, bringing a feral smile to the large Musketeer’s lips. “I…I…I…” he stammered, his mouth snapping closed with the realization that he wasn’t able to manage anything coherent.

Aramis leaned forward, as if about to share a secret. “I like to believe the best about people, until they prove me otherwise. Porthos on the other hand,” he said, glancing meaningfully at the larger man who’d also moved closer. “He thinks no one should be trusted.”

“Better safe than sorry, I always say,” Porthos hissed menacingly in the puppeteer’s ear.

Lariviere shivered as a thrill of anxiety made its way along his spine. “Maybe,” he began, pausing to lick his lips nervously. “Maybe I do know something that can help.” Aramis smiled at him encouragingly while Porthos maintained an expression of distrust. “I _may_ have heard something,” he continued, glancing hopefully in the marksman’s direction.

At Aramis’ nod, he continued. “It’s not much, mind, but I heard a man named Frontenac has recently come into a fair bit of coin.”

“How much?” Porthos immediately asked, his tone steely as he pushed for a response.

“A lot,” Lariviere hurried to reply. “Enough to make people wonder what illegal act he performed to net such a healthy amount.”

“And we can find him where?” Aramis pressed.

“He rents a flat,” Lariviere replied. “On the corner of Avenue Montaigne.”

Aramis gave the man a friendly clap on the shoulder. “That was very helpful, Monsieur. The Musketeers thank you for your assistance.”

As they prepared to leave, Porthos hesitated and turned back to the puppeteer for a moment. “We’d appreciate it if you’d keep our conversation to yourself.”

“Of course,” Lariviere quickly agreed, simply happy to be seeing the back of the intimidating man.

As the two neared the door of the tavern, Aramis leaned towards his friend. “That was easy.”

“Yeah, the hardest part was watching that oddball show,” Porthos replied. Aramis could only nod in agreement as they stepped out into the rain.

To be continued...

* * *

**A/N:** The lines used in the puppet show - bookended by the two asterisks (*) - are adapted from Monty Python's Quest for the Holy Grail. "K-niggets" refers to "knights" but is pronounced in the movie as written here.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From the other side, Porthos snorted with mirth as d’Artagnan bit his lip and did his best to walk normally.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the continued interest in this story, and to everyone who has taken the time to leave a comment or kudos. Thanks also to AZGirl for catching my typos; all remaining mistakes are mine. Hope you enjoy this next part!

d’Artagnan groaned miserably from his position on the muddy ground. If possible, he felt even colder than before, and as a bonus, his backside was now entirely covered in mud. There was no way this day could get any worse.

“Oi, Musketeer!”

The Gascon allowed his eyes to close for a brief moment, silently cursing his bad luck. Forcing his eyes open, he squinted upwards through the rain, noting the presence of three men who’d gathered around him in a loose semi-circle.

“You let him escape,” the tallest of the trio stated accusingly.

d’Artagnan grunted as he rolled to his side in preparation to stand. “I didn’t _let_ him do anything,” he retorted, his irritation clear in his tone.

Before he could fully push himself to his feet, d’Artagnan found himself being hauled upwards by dual grips around both arms. He staggered slightly as they released him, allowing him his first good look at the men. Red Guards. He swallowed the moan of annoyance that threatened, unwilling to allow these men any satisfaction at his expense.

Instead, he stood taller, resolutely ignoring the dull ache that emanated from his back and neck or the uncomfortable way his breeches clung to the backs of his legs. “If you saw what happened, then why didn’t you continue after the boy?” the Gascon asked, zeroing in on the man who’d previously spoken.

“Geroux and Blondeau thought about it,” the man replied motioning to his companions. “But as a fellow brother-in-arms, I felt it best to check on you and find out why you didn’t do your duty.”

Geroux snickered as the first cracks in d’Artagnan’s composed expression began to appear. “Looks like he doesn’t much appreciate your kind gesture, Remy.”

The tall soldier smirked at his comrade’s comment before turning his attention back to the Gascon. “So, Musketeer, care to explain why you let that thief get away.”

d’Artagnan forced himself to speak calmly as he replied. “As I said earlier, I didn’t let him do anything. In case you haven’t noticed, conditions have been less than ideal,” he finished, throwing his hands up to indicate his frustration with the rain.

“Then you’ll be happy to head back to the market and explain to the merchant your ineptitude in performing your duty,” Remy continued, ignoring the Gascon’s response. “You can compensate him for the stolen apples, too.”

The Musketeer was immediately reminded of his empty purse, his funds so limited that he couldn’t pay for the stolen fruit, even if he’d wanted to. Swallowing with difficulty, he pushed away the flush of shame that flared at the realization. “You didn’t catch him, either,” he pointed out.

Remy’s face darkened at the Gascon’s accusation. Stepping closer, he jabbed a finger at d’Artagnan’s chest. “I’m sure you’re not implying that this is somehow our fault.”

“Implying?” the Musketeer’s tone was deceptively light for a moment. “No,” his voice hardened as he continued. “I’m stating that you might have caught him if you and your friends hadn’t stopped for a rest.”

The brief flash of anger on Remy’s face was the only warning d’Artagnan received before he was staggering to his right from a blow to his left cheek. Thanks to the Gascon’s quick reflexes, he didn’t even wait to regain his balance before returning the gesture, burying his fist deeply in Remy’s abdomen.

Dual shocked cries accompanied the other two soldiers’ entry into the fray, and d’Artagnan found himself practically thrown against the wall at his back as each man grasped one of his arms. The Gascon threw himself forward violently in an effort to break the men’s holds, his slick, mud-caked sleeves allowing him to slip from their grasp. Shocked at the success of his actions, d’Artagnan found himself suddenly grateful for the rains that had turned Paris’ streets to mud.

Sadly, his victory was short-lived. While the Gascon had been momentarily distracted by Geroux and Blondeau, their leader had recovered from the blow to his mid-section. Before the other two could even comprehend how their quarry had managed to get away, Remy moved closer and caught the back of d’Artagnan’s cloak as he attempted to make good his escape.

The Gascon found himself suddenly yanked backwards as his cloak was pulled tightly against his throat. He spluttered as his breath was abruptly cut off and had no choice but to stop if he wanted to avoid strangling himself. Remy took full advantage and spun d’Artagnan around to face him, landing a vicious right hook to the Musketeer’s already bruising cheek.

It was a testament to the Gascon’s determination that he merely swayed in place instead of falling to the ground, but the Red Guards weren’t finished yet. Before d’Artagnan could even lift his hands in defense, Geroux had moved closer, and the young Musketeer only caught a glimpse of the other man’s gloved fist as it headed towards his face. The upper cut had him momentarily reeling and then landing heavily on the ground as all sense of equilibrium deserted him.

As if drawn like sharks to blood, the three men converged on the fallen Gascon. Helpless in his position on the ground, and disoriented from the earlier hits to his face, d’Artagnan simply curled inwards with his arms covering his head. He felt several kicks land to the exposed parts of his body, as his mind oddly focused on the grunts of exertion his attackers were emitting. The pain, he knew, would come later, once the adrenaline of his current predicament had bled away.

Suddenly, his slightly addled brain registered a new sound, and he tried to focus on it and make sense of it, not even noticing when the punishing strikes to his body ended. Several long seconds later, he felt hands on his arms, and he flinched badly at the unexpected contact.

The hands receded immediately as their owner spoke. “It’s alright. They’re gone.”

When no further attack came, d’Artagnan hesitantly lowered his arms. “Claremont?”

By the look on the cadet’s face, the young man was just as surprised as the Gascon to discover who he’d unexpectedly saved. “Er, yes, sir. Are you alright?”

Not quite thinking clearly yet, d’Artagnan began to nod absently, stopping abruptly when the dull ache in his head intensified sharply. “M’fine,” he said instead, making motions to rise.

Feeling incredibly awkward around the veteran Musketeer, Claremont simply grabbed hold of the man’s arm and helped him up, worrying his lip at the amount of effort it took to steady the other man. “Are you sure you’re alright, sir?”

“Course,” d’Artagnan replied, his fingers exploring his cheek where the blood running from his temple had begun to itch.

Realizing that the other man wasn’t going to change his answer, the cadet resolved to help him back to the garrison where he could be attended in the infirmary. “I’ll accompany you back.”

d’Artagnan had barely taken two steps when he stopped. “Why did they leave?” At Claremont’s confused expression, he added, “The Red Guards. There’s no way they were intimidated by a single cadet.” At the flash of hurt that crossed the young man’s face, d’Artagnan realized the implication of his words. Cursing himself, he hastened to apologize. “Sorry, that’s not what I meant.”

“It’s alright, sir, I understand. I wasn’t alone; there was a group of us. The rest went after them while I stayed to check on you. I’m sure they’ll be returning soon,” Claremont explained.

“Mm,” d’Artagnan hummed at the information. He’d begun walking again, beginning to favour his left side as each step brought with it a stab of pain in his hip and back. It took nearly a block before his muddled brain registered another important fact. “It’s stopped raining.”

“Yes, sir, just a short while ago.”

“Hmm,” d’Artagnan replied, his hand coming up to once more rub at the blood that continued to trickle down his face.

“I, uh, wouldn’t do that, sir,” Claremont said, tentatively reaching for the other man’s hand and pulling it away from his face. “The blood is ah…” he trailed off and then made a circular motion with his hand in the general area around his face.

“Oh,” the Gascon replied, momentarily wishing for the return of the rain, if only to wash his face clean. The thought of rain reminded him of his leaky boots, and he grimaced as he took another soggy step, his feet uncomfortably wet and cold inside the damp leather. Between his half-frozen feet and the growing pain in his lower back, he was beginning to flag, and his breaths were becoming increasingly laboured as he forced himself to continue moving.

“Would you, er, like to rest for a moment?” Claremont managed to ask, growing increasingly concerned over the other man’s gait and pallor.

d’Artagnan gave the cadet an odd look, having thought he’d been doing a fine job of hiding his injuries. He was about to say so when two new faces distracted him, and he raised his right hand in greeting at the new arrivals. He waited as they approached, Claremont momentarily confused at why they’d stopped and then growing relieved when he laid eyes upon Porthos and Aramis.

The older Musketeers’ expressions turned to concern as soon as they got close enough to take in d’Artagnan’s appearance, prompting Claremont to try and reassure them. “We were just on our way back to the garrison infirmary.”

“Infirmary, eh?” Aramis said, leaning closer to the Gascon’s face to examine the split skin at his temple and across his cheekbone. “I’ll accompany you.” Turning to the larger man, he asked, “Porthos, are you alright to speak with Frontenac alone?”

Porthos gave his friend a look that clearly said, ‘you must be joking’, but he simply nodded. 

“Wait, who’s Frontenac,” d’Artagnan asked, his eyes suddenly clearer as curiosity gripped him.

“He might be our thief,” Porthos replied.

“Or if not him, then he hired the man who did it,” Aramis explained.

“Then it’s too dangerous for you to go alone,” the Gascon replied, a look of determination settling on his pale features. “We’ll all go.”

Aramis frowned at the suggestion, trading a quick glance with Porthos whose expression mirrored his own. “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” the larger man countered. “What happened to you, anyway?”

Claremont drew breath to speak, but a glare from d’Artagnan had him holding his tongue. “It was nothing,” the Gascon replied, still holding the cadet’s gaze to keep him silent. “Just a misunderstanding.”

“Was that misunderstanding with a wall?” Porthos queried with a look of disbelief.

Changing tact, d’Artagnan asked, “Where’s this Frontenac?”

His brow still furrowed, Aramis replied, “Not far from here. Why?”

Putting on his most reasonable expression, d’Artagnan responded. “Then the three of us can go there, while Claremont heads back to report to the captain.” Shifting his gaze to Aramis, he added, “You can even check me over before we talk with this man, if it’ll make you feel better.”

Well acquainted with the Gascon’s stubborn streak, the two older Musketeers traded glances once more, arriving at the same conclusion: it would be easier to acquiesce than to continue arguing with the younger man. “Alright,” Porthos agreed.

“Your proposal is surprisingly…” Aramis began, then paused as he searched for the right word. “Reasonable,” he finished, an amused smile on his face.

Managing to avoid rolling his eyes, d’Artagnan’s lips quirked upwards into a faint grin. He knew his friends weren’t happy with his suggestion, but he was pleased they’d agreed to his compromise. Now he just needed to keep Aramis from finding out exactly how badly every part of his body hurt, or he’d be relegated to an infirmary bed for sure.

The Gascon nodded at Claremont in dismissal, but before the cadet could go, Aramis called his name. “Claremont, give the captain this message,” he said as he pulled a piece of folded parchment from his doublet. “Please ask him to meet us there if it suits him, and to bring along my medical bag.”

d’Artagnan’s expression morphed to one of horror while Aramis merely smirked at him in reply. Several moments passed before the young man let out a grumbled, “Fine.”

Claremont moved off in one direction while the others went in another, Porthos and Aramis quickly flanking the younger man as they walked towards their destination. “So,” Aramis began as they walked. “Tell me about this wall.”

From the other side, Porthos snorted with mirth as d’Artagnan bit his lip and did his best to walk normally.

To be continued...


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not fully believing the Gascon, but willing to take him at his word for now, Athos turned to Porthos and Aramis. “Gentleman, lead the way.”

Athos had been startled by Claremont’s arrival, the young man having run through the garrison gates as though he had the Devil himself on his heels. The cadet had been thoroughly out of breath and Athos had ordered him to take several minutes to compose himself before giving his report. As he waited, the former noble couldn’t help but smile to himself at how much the young man reminded him of d’Artagnan’s earlier days with them.

Once Claremont’s breathing had returned to normal, he reported what he’d seen. Red Guards beating d’Artagnan while he lay on the ground; the Gascon’s poor condition and subsequent confusion once he was back on his feet; Aramis and Porthos’ message accompanied by a request for the former’s medical supplies. Athos’ jaw hurt from clenching it by the time the cadet was done. Worse yet, the group of cadets who’d chased after d’Artagnan’s attackers returned as Claremont was finishing, the expressions on their faces clearly conveying their failure to catch those responsible.

Dismissing the men, Athos had immediately headed for the stables, and was relieved to find out that the streets were now deemed safe enough as long as the rains stayed away. Leaving orders that four horses should be saddled, he then ran towards Aramis’ room, ignoring the startled looks thrown his way by his men. As he set out from the garrison, he sent up a prayer of thanks that he hadn’t run into the one person he was actually scared of facing: Constance.

Madame d’Artagnan had always been a force to be reckoned with, and the years she’d spent alone in Paris had merely hardened her inner core of strength. She routinely dealt with the scores of new and older Musketeers, not to mention matching wits with Paris’ new governor and his Red Guards. More importantly, she won those contests more often than not.

Despite the hardships she’d endured, she still loved deeply, and the centre of her world was her husband, newly returned from the war. When the two of them were together, the heat between them was almost palpable, and God help the man or woman who ever tried to get between them. It was for this reason that Athos was happy to escape without having to explain what little he knew about d’Artagnan’s current condition. Had Constance had this information, she would have stormed into the streets with Athos trailing helplessly behind her. Taking orders from Madame d’Artagnan would have been awkward for the captain of the Musketeers.

Riding gave Athos an advantage, and he arrived at the location identified in Aramis’ message several minutes before the others did. By then, he’d tied the horses and was pacing impatiently as he waited to lay eyes on the injured Gascon. When the trio finally came into view, Athos had a mere moment of relief before he took in the pallor of the young man’s features and the oddness of his gait.

Tamping down the urge to race forward to meet the men, Athos forced himself to stand in place as he waited for his friends to arrive. “d’Artagnan,” the captain breathed out when the men had stopped before him. Without thought, his hand moved of its own accord to the Gascon’s face, hovering next to the young man’s bruised and bloodied cheek before slipping to grip the back of his neck. “Are you alright?” he finally asked.

Despite the many years the men had fought and bled together, d’Artagnan was still embarrassed at the attention he received when he got hurt. Ducking his head for a moment, he mumbled, “I’m fine, Athos.”

“Ah, I think I will be the judge of that,” Aramis interjected having heard the softly spoken words. He locked eyes with the older man as he asked, “You brought my bag?”

With a nod, Athos released his hold on the young man’s neck and went to retrieve the medic’s supplies. In the meantime, Porthos manoeuvred d’Artagnan into a seated position on a rough-hewn bench that someone had placed at the side of the street. As soon as he sat down, the Gascon was instantly reminded he wasn't as fine as he'd reported, causing him to surge upwards off the bench. His sore body protested the abrupt movement and he found himself stumbling forwards, only to be caught by Porthos’ strong grip.

“Hey, now, what’s this all about?” the large man asked as he steadied the younger man.

“Er, I’m just eager to get on with things,” d’Artagnan replied, glancing toward Athos and Aramis who were now watching him with rapt interest.

Recognizing that there was more going on than the Gascon had disclosed, Aramis maintained a pleasant look on his face as he addressed his patient. “Sit down, d’Artagnan. After all, you agreed to this in exchange for being allowed to accompany us.”

The Gascon’s features twisted anxiously as he considered the discomfort of sitting down. The flare of pain as he’d done so before had been instantaneous and had burned hotly from below his lower back all the way to the base of his skull. Although a dull ache still emanated from the region while standing, it was far more tolerable than sitting down had been.

Desperate to avoid the medic’s ministrations, he sought Athos out, pleading with him silently to order Aramis away. The captain carefully scrutinized the Gascon for several long seconds, cataloguing the pallor of his face, the crinkling around his eyes that bespoke of pain, and the way he seemed to be sweating despite the chilled air surrounding them. Having reached a decision, he said, “d’Artagnan, sit down and let Aramis examine you.”

The Gascon’s face fell, but he steeled himself to do as he’d been ordered. Gingerly he lowered himself down, his hands bracing him on either side as he slowly transferred his weight. He winced once he was fully seated, biting his lip to prevent any sounds of pain from escaping. Over his head, Athos and Porthos exchanged worried looks, while the marksman moved forward as if nothing was amiss.

“Now then, let’s see what we’re dealing with,” Aramis said, as he sat down next to the Gascon.

“Aramis, I’ve already told you it’s nothing,” d’Artagnan began, still hoping to dissuade the other man from his goal.

Athos cleared his throat in warning and threw the Gascon a stern glare as the young man met his eyes over Aramis’ shoulder. “Fine” the young man grumbled.

“Where are you hurt?” the medic asked, peering intently at the bruises and split skin on the Gascon’s face, but hoping his question would have his patient more forthcoming about his injuries.

d’Artagnan absently motioned towards his face with one hand, still stabilizing himself with the other, his knuckles nearly turning white with the grip he maintained on the bench. His posture echoed the discomfort on his face, his back rigid with unspoken pain.

Taking a piece of wet linen, Aramis obligingly pressed it to the Gascon’s cheek, gently wiping away the blood that had begun to dry there. “Anywhere else?” the medic asked pleasantly, still hopeful the young man would be honest with him.

“d’Artagnan,” Athos intoned, the single word a warning not to hide anything from them.

The Gascon’s eyes were automatically drawn to his captain’s, an argument already blossoming on his lips until he saw the expression on his mentor’s face. To most, Athos would appear serious and unconcerned, possibly even slightly bored as he waited for a man under his command to be tended to. Those who knew him well, however, recognized that Athos’ neutral expression was carefully crafted as he tried to hide his concern from view.

The affectation of boredom was actually impatience as he waited to hear whether the young man was alright, his emotions controlled only by an iron that wouldn’t disclose his true feelings to the rest of the world. It was that which kept him standing in place instead of rushing to d’Artagnan’s side, to seek the comforting reassurance in the bump of his shoulder against the young man’s and be reminded by the Gascon’s solidity that he was alive and mostly well. 

d’Artagnan read all of that in Athos’ features in the span of a heartbeat, and his words of protest simply vanished. With difficulty, he ripped his gaze away from the older man’s and refocused on Aramis, speaking softly as he said, “My hip and left lower back.” With a huff that might have been a forced laugh, he explained, “The Red Guards have hard boots.” Shifting his gaze from Aramis to Porthos, he found identical looks of horror facing him, but it was Athos’ expression that took his breath away.

The older man’s face reflected a mix of sadness and rage as he said, “I’ll be expecting their names from you as soon as we’ve finished here.” The Gascon merely nodded, suddenly incredibly uncomfortable, and cast his eyes downwards.

Aramis regained his composure and said, “Obviously we can’t have you dropping your breeches out here on the street.” d’Artagnan’s face lifted, his features reflecting his relief. “But I can take a quick look at your back, and I’ll complete the rest of my examination later at the garrison.”

The Gascon knew it was the best offer he’d get, and he gave a slight nod in agreement. Given the continued discomfort of d’Artagnan’s current position, Aramis stood and held his hand out to his friend, helping him to his feet. “Porthos,” the medic said, the larger man already moving forward to assist.

Aramis removed the Gascon’s cloak first, passing it to Porthos to hold. Next came the young man’s doublet, which joined the other outer garment. Placing his hands on d’Artagnan’s shoulders, the medic gently urged him to turn around to gain access to his back. “I’m just going to lift your shirt enough to have a look,” he said, not wanting to startle the young man.

Pulling the shirt free from d’Artagnan’s breeches, Aramis bit his lip at the bruising that was revealed. Deep red spots were already turning to purples and blacks, especially across the Gascon’s left flank. The bruises disappeared beneath the top of the young man’s breeches, and Aramis could well imagine what lay below. “I’m going to press against some of these bruises, d’Artagnan.”

Aramis’ expert touch moved across both sets of ribs, and he forced himself to ignore the Gascon’s sudden intake of breath when he found that one or two of the bones seemed to creak beneath the pressure. He moved lower then, continuing to apply even but firm pressure through the leather breeches, noting the way that d’Artagnan’s back stiffened in discomfort.

Dropping the hem of the shirt, Aramis said, “Alright, you can turn around now.”

Gratefully, d’Artagnan began tucking his shirt in, the dual sensations of embarrassment and cold hurrying his motions as he turned to face his friends. Porthos waited until he was finished before handing him his doublet, watching as he fumbled the clasps with chilled fingers. With a huff of annoyance, Aramis swept the Gascon’s uncooperative hands away to finish the job himself, while Porthos stepped closer and draped the cloak around the young man’s shoulders.

When d’Artagnan was suitably attired against the cold, Aramis turned his attention to Athos who was waiting expectantly. “I’m worried about a couple of his ribs, which are definitely cracked, possibly broken. The bruising is…” he paused as he searched for the right words. “Extensive and certainly painful.”

“Should he be on duty?” Athos asked, noting the look of indecision on the medic’s face at the question.

“I’m right here,” d’Artagnan announced through gritted teeth. High at the top of his list of dislikes was being treated like a child, or worse yet, an invalid. In his mind, he was neither. “I’m fine to be on duty _and_ to complete this mission.”

Porthos wore an expression of doubt, having been near enough to get an eyeful when the bruising on the young man’s back was revealed. He’d also stayed close as they’d walked to their current location, even occasionally throwing an arm around the young man’s shoulders, allowing him to feel the minute trembles that coursed intermittently through his body. In his mind, the Gascon was unwell and would best be tucked up in bed while his wife cared for him. A moment later, Aramis echoed his concerns.

“The ribs are worrisome, and I’d really like to get some witch hazel on those bruises as soon as possible,” the medic began, choosing to address Athos’ earlier question rather than argue with the younger man. “If needed, he could probably stay on duty, but if there’s an option…” He trailed off, letting the captain assume the rest of the sentence.

“Don’t I get a say?” d’Artagnan asked, his tone bordering on whining.

“No,” the three men responded as one, causing the Gascon to throw his hands up in frustration, only to wince a moment later when his body protested the movement.

“Would you return to the garrison if I ordered you?” Athos queried, finally addressing the younger man.

A petulant look appeared on d’Artagnan’s face as he carefully crossed his arms.

Athos studied the Gascon for several long seconds before he sighed. “That’s what I thought. Alright, you can accompany us to speak with this Frontenac.” A wide grin appeared on d’Artagnan’s face “And,” the captain continued. “You will submit yourself to any treatment Aramis directs immediately upon our return to the garrison.”

“Not Aramis I need to worry about,” the Gascon replied under his breath.

Porthos let out a quick bark of laughter while the other two men appeared confused, not having discerned d’Artagnan’s comment. “I said,” he began more loudly, “I agree to your terms.”

Not fully believing the Gascon, but willing to take him at his word for now, Athos turned to Porthos and Aramis. “Gentleman, lead the way.”

To be continued...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to AZGirl for catching my typos; all remaining mistakes are mine.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Frontenac’s face twisted into a sadistic grin as he replied, “Don’t worry; he won’t be botherin’ anyone ever again.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the lovely comments on the last chapter and thanks to AZGirl for catching my typos; all remaining mistakes are mine. Hope you enjoy what comes next.

A chance encounter with a departing tenant at the front door of Frontenac's residence provided the Musketeers with the location of the man's rented room, which happened to be upstairs and at the end of the hall. The knowledge allowed the men to hone in directly on their target without potentially alerting him to their presence by knocking on doors.

Athos ordered Aramis and Porthos upstairs, while he remained downstairs with d'Artagnan, not wanting the younger man in harm's way if their quarry chose to be combative. The younger man leaned against the wall with his arms crossed, a brief flash of pain appearing on his face when his position pressed on bruised flesh.

The sight made Athos want to berate the young man for allowing himself to get into a situation where he could be hurt. Remembering his earlier promise to himself about his treatment of his friends, he bit his lip and remained silent instead. They listened to their friends' footfalls as they traversed the stairs and the hallway above, their journey ending with knuckles rapping solidly against a wooden door.

The men waited a minute and then two, with Athos finally declaring, "It sounds like they've met with success."

d'Artagnan offered a soft grunt in reply, the aches in his body getting harder to ignore now that he wasn't moving around as much. As he shifted positions, trying to find one that was kinder to his abused body, Athos drew breath to speak.

"d'Artagnan," the older man began. "What exactly happened with the Red Guards? Claremont only shared his discovery of your fight with them but was unable to explain what led to it in the first place."

Taking a moment to choose his words, the Gascon replied. "When I was at the marketplace, I saw a thief take two applies from a vendor's cart. I was chasing him, but he got away."

Athos raised an eyebrow, clearly looking for more. With a soft huff, d'Artagnan went on. "I slipped and fell and that's when the Red Guards found me. They knew about the thief I'd been chasing, and accused me of shirking my duty and intentionally letting him go." There was an odd expression on the younger man's face as he finished his explanation, leaving Athos wracking his brain to understand the reason for the strange look.

From what he knew of his protégé, d'Artagnan had a good heart and a strong sense of justice. Unlike many soldiers, he genuinely cared for people and would do anything in his power to help them. That extended to his belief in fair treatment, and Athos recognized that the Gascon struggled when people were treated in ways he believed were unfair and unjust. He scrutinized his friend's face once more, finally remembering another time when he'd seen the expression on the younger man's face. It was the same look he'd worn when the king ordered Lemaitre's execution after having granted him clemency.

That experience had haunted d'Artagnan for months and made him question his fealty to the royal. Athos still held the belief that the only thing that had saved the young man then was Constance's affection, which had eventually turned his way. Licking his lips, the older man chose his words carefully. "You were glad when the thief escaped."

d'Artagnan startled at the statement, his features immediately turning anxious and unsettled. Not wanting the Gascon to reject the assertion, Athos continued, "Tell me about the thief."

The younger man looked downwards, his gaze landing on his crossed arms for several long seconds before he responded. "He was just a boy, Athos." He lifted his eyes upwards, as though testing the older man's reaction as he softly said, "He was so thin. His arm was like a twig that might break in a strong wind. It's clear he was underfed, and it was only two apples."

"Only two apples?" the older man prompted.

"I got used to going without when we were at the front," d'Artagnan replied. "Plus, I'm a soldier, and it was my choice, my duty, to be there to fight for my king. But this boy didn't ask for any of this." He paused, a look of anguish painting his face. "People are starving, Athos. They've come to Paris expecting things to be better, but it's _not_ any better here. I know it's our duty to uphold the law, and I did my best to catch him…" he trailed off.

"But you were relieved when you did not," Athos gently finished for him, earning him a tired nod from the younger man. Drawing breath to speak, the captain was interrupted by a loud crash from above, followed immediately by a cry of pain. "Stay here," Athos ordered as he turned to the stairs, already halfway up when a shout from Aramis stopped him.

"He's outside! Don't let him get away!"

With Athos still on the stairs, d'Artagnan was now closest to the door and he wasted no time in turning and running outside. He came to a halt moments later when he found Porthos lying on the ground surrounded by shards of glass. "He's gone that way," the older man pointed down the street at a fleeing man. Athos was at his side seconds later, which the Gascon took as his cue to give chase, leaving a startled commanding officer in his wake.

"What happened?" the older man asked.

"Frontenac," Porthos replied. "We fought and went through the window together."

Understanding dawned just as Aramis arrived, his expression rapidly shifting from fear to relief at seeing Porthos alive and speaking with their captain.

"Take care of him," Athos ordered as he ran for his horse. d'Artagnan had age on his side, and even if that wasn't the case, the former noble doubted he could have ever kept up with the younger man even though he was injured. 'Adrenaline was wonderful at masking one's pain,' he thought to himself. Pulling himself into the saddle, he spotted the look of indecision on the marksman's face, prompting him to repeat his earlier order. "Do it."

Spinning his horse around, he kicked it into a canter, not trusting that the streets were yet dry enough to attempt a gallop. He could barely see d'Artagnan's back as the young man sprinted after Frontenac. Despite the horse's superior speed, Athos was hampered by various obstacles on the street, not the least of which were the numerous people who'd come out of their homes now that the rains had finally ended.

"Arggh," the captain grunted in frustration as he abruptly pulled up on his horse's reins to avoid barreling over an oblivious Parisian. Again, he lost precious seconds waiting for the man in his path to move before he was once more nudging his horse into motion.

Finally, he managed to close the distance between himself and d'Artagnan, just as their quarry veered right down a new street. Recognizing their location, Athos called to the younger man, "I'll go around and cut him off." He received a quickly upheld hand in reply as the Gascon disappeared around the upcoming corner.

The captain continued going straight, knowing that the street the other two were on would eventually loop around and intersect with his path. He just needed to make sure he reached the intersection first, a task that would be far easier to accomplish with fewer people milling about. He cursed under his breath at the appearance of a new obstacle, this one in the form of a slow-moving cart that was being pulled by two young children.

The two were oblivious to the danger that approached, and Athos pulled hard on the reins, praying that his horse would be nimble enough to stop in time. With the abrupt jerk on the reins, the animal beneath him startled, lowering its head even as its front legs dug into the ground in an effort to stop its forward momentum. With a neigh of protest, the horse came to an abrupt halt which Athos was not fully prepared for. The result had him tumbling through the air and landing on the ground ahead of the horse, the poor animal startling anew and backing up in fear.

Vaguely, Athos registered the sound of the children's cries, and he managed to turn his head enough to confirm they were unhurt and merely frightened by the realization that they'd nearly been struck by the now stationary horse and rider. As he watched, they regained their holds on the handles of the cart they were pulling and scurried away. He let his eyes flutter closed as he allowed himself a moment of indulgent stillness, not yet ready to move and discover whatever injuries he'd incurred because of his unexpected dismount.

Remembering d'Artagnan's pursuit of their prey sent a jolt of adrenaline through his system and had him reopening his eyes. With a low groan, he rolled from his back to his side, pausing for a moment when his vision swam. Propped up on one elbow, he pressed his other hand to his head, his fingers zeroing in on a dull throbbing at the back of his skull. He let his fingers explore the spot for only a moment, his pain spiking at the touch.

Bringing his hand forward once more, he winced at the sight of red on his fingers, his frown deepening with the realization that Aramis would likely need to stitch him up later. Sighing carefully, he continued his roll, arranging himself on his hands and knees for a moment before pushing his way to his feet. Once more, his vision darkened, the ground seemingly swaying beneath him for several dizzying seconds. "Pull yourself together," he softly chastised himself, his need to get back on his horse growing in urgency with each second that passed.

Finally feeling like he could walk without falling over, Athos carefully covered the few steps between himself and his horse. Making soft sounds of comfort, he reached for the steed, rubbing its nose gently as he calmed it. Repositioning himself at the horse's side, he gingerly pulled himself upwards, ignoring the way his world shifted around him with the small change in altitude and the exertion of mounting.

Leaning forward to grab the reins hanging loose around the animal's neck caused him to inhale sharply, as the throbbing in his skull spiked dangerously. He took another slow, careful breath, preparing himself for the inevitable discomfort that riding would bring. Sufficiently steeled, he pressed his heels into the horse's flanks, and then gritted his teeth as he nudged the animal to increase its speed.

The view from the jostling beast left him feeling lightheaded and had him pressing his knees against the horse's flanks to stop himself from falling off. Squinting, he forced himself to find a point in the distance to focus on, finding the vertigo lessening with the effort. Ahead, he could see his destination in sight and breathed out a sigh of relief that he was nearly there.

This time, he brought the horse to a more gradual stop, certain neither he nor his mount would appreciate another halt as sudden as the previous one. He positioned himself to look down the street from which d'Artagnan and Frontenac would approach. A minute passed and then two, and he grew increasingly more anxious as each second ticked by without any sight of the two men.

His horse moved impatiently beneath him, and Athos tugged it back into place, his eyes never leaving the street. Suddenly, he saw people moving to the sides as if to get out of the way of something approaching. His heartbeat sped up in anticipation and he savoured the moment when they'd have the fleeing man in their custody. Sure enough, a moment later he spotted the approaching man who didn't look like he'd slowed down at all.

Athos shifted his gaze further down the road, expecting to catch sight of the Gascon at any moment. One second passed and then another, and his slight smile of satisfaction slowly slipped from his face. Frontenac was nearly at the intersection, but there was still no evidence of d'Artagnan.

Frowning, Athos slipped from his horse, pulling his pistol as he positioned himself in Frontenac's path. "Halt, or I will shoot," he called loudly, wincing at the spike of pain that resulted from his volume.

The man slowed to a walk but didn't stop, his eyes darting to both sides as he evaluated his options. Athos stepped closer, his pistol aimed at the man's chest. "I assure you that it would be quite impossible for me to miss at this distance." Frontenac stopped and glanced behind him, considering running back the way he'd came. "I can hit a moving target just as easily as a still one," Athos stated with certainty.

The captain watched as the man accepted his fate, his shoulders drooping even as he raised his hands in surrender. "Step closer," Athos directed, unwilling to let his attention waver for even a moment. Catching the sight of a burly man from the corner of his eye, he directed his next statement at him. "There's rope attached to the saddle," he said, motioning towards his horse with his chin.

Thankfully, the bystander understood and hurried forward to retrieve the rope before hesitantly moving towards the Musketeer's prisoner. With a nod, Athos gave his permission to proceed, adjusting his position slightly to maintain his line of fire. The helpful man stepped back, revealing Frontenac's hands tied firmly together. "My thanks," Athos said as he allowed himself to glance at the bystander.

Holstering his pistol, Athos grasped the length of rope that trailed from Frontenac's bound wrists, using it to pull the man towards his horse, where he tied the end to his saddle pommel. Comfortable that the man would not be able to evade them again, he asked, "Where's my Musketeer?"

Frontenac's face twisted into a sadistic grin as he replied, "Don't worry; he won't be botherin' anyone ever again."

To be continued...


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> d’Artagnan drew a deeper breath, preparing himself to move and defend himself, but before he could do anything, a sharp pain in his side stole the air from his chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for AZGirl's help with proofing; all remaining mistakes are mine.

d’Artagnan had taken off after Frontenac without hesitation, his only thought being that the man who’d hurt one of his brothers was getting away. His first few running steps were painful, the impact of each footfall jarring his ribs and causing his breath to stutter. His hip and lower back added their own protests, making him almost reconsider his hasty pursuit.

But then Porthos’ pained face appeared in his memory, the large man surrounded by splinters of broken and glass from the window he’d fallen through. He’d made no move to rise, which was telling in itself, and the Gascon had no doubt his friend was hurt worse than was immediately evident. That would mean he’d need help, definitely from Aramis and possibly from Athos, leaving the chase to him.

With that realization, d’Artagnan pushed harder, willing his arms and legs to pump faster despite his body’s desire to be still. Pain, he’d learned, was something to be compartmentalized and pushed aside, to be dealt with later once the battle was over. Though he was no longer on a battlefield, the similarities were undeniable, and the lessons he’d learned there still applied.

He could tell that he was slowly closing the distance between himself and the escaping man, and that knowledge gave him new energy to once more increase his speed. The euphoria of the chase was nearly enough to have him forgetting his damaged ribs and bruised muscles. He felt his face breaking out into a faint grin as he revelled in the sweet sensations of pain masked by adrenaline, the air sweeping through his hair, and the powerful pounding of his boots against the cobblestones beneath his feet.

They were approaching a fork in the road, and he wondered for a moment which path the man would choose. From behind, he was surprised to hear Athos’ voice, and his grin grew wider as he heard and acknowledged the man’s orders. It wouldn’t be long now, he thought to himself in satisfaction.

He followed the man down the right fork of the road, easily keeping him in sight. Suddenly the man took another abrupt right, making d’Artagnan frown in worry that they might not intersect with Athos after all. Rather than slowing down, he kept his pace, eager to set eyes on his prey as quickly as possible. He only pulled up at the last second, wary of suffering another fall like his earlier one, as he threw himself into the sharp right turn that Frontenac had made seconds before.

A fist smashed directly into his face before he’d taken more than two steps down the narrow side street, stunning him and making his knees buckle. He hit the ground hard, barely catching himself from face planting by instinctively throwing his hands out in front of him to break his fall. A booted foot to his ribs had him falling the rest of the way to the ground, the force of the kick rolling him onto his back.

Before he could gain his senses, a fist was wrapped around the cloak at his throat, making him try to move back but unable to do so because of the strong hold. “Leave me alone, Musketeer,” a voice hissed, the foul breath rolling over d’Artagnan’s face almost making him gag. Moaning lowly, the Gascon involuntarily closed his eyes as he tried to turn away from the offensive odour.

His eyes popped open once more as the man gave him a couple hard shakes, before releasing his hold on the cloak. d’Artagnan drew a deeper breath, preparing himself to move and defend himself, but before he could do anything, a sharp pain in his side stole the air from his chest. His hands flew to the spot immediately, confusion mixing with fear as he tried to comprehend what had happened. His opportunity to figure it out was swiftly taken away from him as his attacker lashed out with his fist once more, the blow stealing the last remnants of consciousness from him.

Standing, his assailant wiped the bloodied blade of his dagger on the dark leather of his breeches, sliding it into its sheath before exiting the narrow space.

* * *

“Athos!” The sound of his name startled him, and he looked immediately in the direction from which the voice had called. Moments later, he let out a sigh of relief at seeing both Aramis and Porthos approaching on horseback, with the horse meant for d’Artagnan trailing behind.

“You caught him,” Aramis stated with a wide grin on his face as he and Porthos brought their horses to a stop a few feet away from Athos and his prisoner.

“Yes,” the captain agreed. “It was an _eventful_ pursuit.”

The marksman’s eyes narrowed at the older man’s choice of words, just now noticing the flecks of dried mud on the man’s doublet and the disarray of his hair. “Are you hurt?”

Athos absently lifted a hand to his head, lightly touching the spot he’d discovered earlier and wincing at the contact. His reaction was more than enough for Aramis. “Since you’re upright and standing, I’ll assume for now you’re alright.” The expression on his face promised a thorough examination once they had time, and Athos merely nodded in reply.

Looking around, Porthos asked, “Where’s d’Artagnan?”

Athos’ momentary pleasure faded immediately as he was reminded of the Gascon’s absence. Placing a hand on Frontenac’s shoulder and squeezing hard, he replied, “He was just about to tell me.”

Aramis frowned at the implication of the captain’s words. “He did something to d’Artagnan?”

“That is what we are about to find out,” Athos said as he glared menacingly at the man.

“Then I think I should have the pleasure of _helping_,” Porthos stated, a mirthless grin appearing on his face. The former noble watched intently as the larger man carefully dismounted. His movements were precise, measured, and spoke of injuries Porthos was trying to hide. Athos glanced briefly in Aramis’ direction, the medic offering a slight shake of his head to indicate whatever hurts had been suffered weren’t life threatening.

Planting himself in front of Frontenac, Porthos adopted a low, fierce tone that usually had even the bravest of men revealing their deepest, darkest secrets. “The captain seems to think you have something to do with d’Artagnan not being here.”

He lifted an inquisitive brow in Athos direction who helpfully supplied, “I believe his words were something along the lines of d’Artagnan not bothering anyone ever again.”

The comment intensified Porthos’ glare and he noted with satisfaction the beads of sweat that were beginning to appear at Frontenac’s temples. “That sounds like a threat to me,” he replied. “Is that what you were doing? Threatening the captain and the rest of us Musketeers?”

Frontenac’s eyes darted between Porthos and Aramis, seeking some reassurance in the latter man’s expression but finding none. Leaning into the man’s space, the larger man said, “You seemed to have plenty to say right before you took us both through that window.”

Their prisoner bit his lip and averted his eyes but continued to remain silent. “Maybe he needs some encouragement?” Porthos mused aloud.

Athos seemed to consider the larger man’s question for a moment, before offering a curt nod. “Alright, but quickly.”

“Aramis.” Porthos motioned to Frontenac, prompting the marksman to move to the man’s other side to restrain him. The large man moved quickly to untie their prisoner’s hands, cutting the length of rope in half and tying an end around each wrist. The ends of both ropes were then tied to his and Aramis’ pommels, leaving Frontenac staring at the men in trepidation as his arms stretched out between the two horses.

As Porthos mounted his horse, the genuinely panicked man now turned pleading eyes to Athos. “Surely, you don’t condone murder.”

The captain seemed relaxed as he stood with arms crossed, ready to watch the proceedings. “They’re usually quite good at this and can stop the horses before they pull you limb from limb.”

“Of course, there was that one time in Bordeaux,” Aramis added helpfully from atop his horse.

Porthos grimaced as he replied, “That was a messy one. Poor man didn’t stand a chance.” Refocusing his gaze on Frontenac, he said, “Bled out in mere minutes.”

Aramis was nodding sadly as he added, “Probably better that way.” Brightening, he said, “But we’ve been practicing since then. Shouldn’t be anything worse than dislocation this time.”

“One can only hope,” Athos agreed. 

“You wouldn’t,” Frontenac said, his glance now bouncing between his captors’ faces, all of whom appeared as though not to have a care in the world.

“Oh, but we would,” Porthos practically growled as he leaned over his horse’s neck to get closer to the man. Sitting up, he turned to the marksman. “Ready?”

“Mm,” Aramis hummed. “You kept the rope shorter this time so the horses don’t get up to full speed?”

“Course I did,” the larger man confirmed. “Told you, last time was too messy. Don’t want to be washing blood off my horse’s forelegs again; once was enough.”

As the two horses began to move farther apart, beginning to pull on Frontenac’s arms, the man gagged and retched, his fear obviously overtaking him. “No, please, stop!” he pleaded once he’d managed to swallow down the bile that had surged from his stomach. “There’s no need for this. I’ll take you to your man.”

Keeping the tension on the ropes, Porthos leaned forward in interest. “You will?” Frontenac nodded vigorously, his head practically bouncing on his neck. “I don’t believe you,” the Musketeer replied. “Let’s give ‘im a bit of a stretch just so he doesn’t try to double-cross us.”

“No!” Frontenac practically shrieked, confirming to the others that he was finally ready to cooperate.

Striding forward, Athos said, “Very well.” Untying the rope from one wrist, he swiftly repurposed the rope to bind both arms together again. “But this will be your penance if you lie to us.”

“And this time, we won’t be trying to stop the horses before your arms are pulled from their sockets,” Aramis added.

Tied to Porthos’ horse, the man led them back down the street, stopping when he reached a small side-street that was barely large enough for two men to walk down shoulder to shoulder. Lifting his bound hands, he pointed at the entranceway. “He’s down there.” Licking his lips nervously, he added, “Don’t blame me if he’s already dead, though.

Dismounting, Athos patted the man’s cheek warningly with a gloved hand as he replied, “I can assure you, monsieur, we will hold you directly responsible for our friend’s condition.”

Itching to follow the men but recognizing that someone had to stay with their prisoner, Porthos watched as Athos and Aramis ducked into the narrow alley and disappeared from view. He counted down the minutes as they passed, doing his best not to fidget in front of Frontenac. When five minutes had crawled by, he was ready to jump down from his horse, regardless of his duty to watch their prisoner. That was when the men appeared.

d’Artagnan was pale, even more so than earlier, but he was upright and walking under his own strength - mostly. His right arm was draped over Athos’ shoulders, and it was obvious the older man was carrying a portion of the Gascon’s weight. d’Artagnan’s other arm was pressed to his side, and it was clear despite the limb’s position, that there was fresh blood on his shirt, his doublet and cloak both hanging open to expose part of his left side.

Porthos growled low in his throat, and as if sensing his friend’s reaction, Aramis locked eyes with him and said, “He’ll be alright.” With those words, the larger man felt a weight he’d been unaware of lift from his chest, and he breathed out a long sigh of relief.

“You!” d’Artagnan exclaimed as he caught sight of their prisoner, his arm dropping from Athos’ shoulders even as he was launching himself forward.

While the men knew the Gascon had every right to be upset, they couldn’t allow their friend to take his ire out on the bound man. Before d’Artagnan had taken more than a couple steps, Aramis had moved neatly in front of him to block his path. Coming to an abrupt halt that had his breath hitching with pain, the Gascon warned the marksman. “Move out of my way, Aramis, or else.”

“Or else, what?” the marksman asked, keeping his tone even. “What are you going to do, bleed on me?”

The non-sequitur took the wind from the young man’s sails, and he huffed out a few words of protest. “Really, Aramis, that’s the best you can come up with?”

“Well, to be fair, you didn’t give me much to work with,” the marksman replied, his eyes twinkling with mirth.

“Fine,” the Gascon acquiesced. “I’ll be a good little Musketeer and won’t maim our prisoner.” A glance in Frontenac’s direction around Aramis delivered the unspoken promise – yet.

“Athos, perhaps Porthos should escort our prisoner back to the garrison,” the marksman suggested.

The comment left Athos momentarily wondering if the medic was that concerned about d’Artagnan possibly attacking the man, but after another second’s thought, he realized Aramis’ true motivations. Porthos had been hurt while falling through the window, and he still didn’t know the extent of the man’s injuries. Although the large man had rallied while they’d searched for d’Artagnan, he was now looking decidedly unwell as he sat slumped in the saddle. Heading back to the garrison was the kindest order he could give right now and would ensure their friend had a chance for some much-needed rest.

Catching Porthos’ eye, Athos said, “Take Frontenac back to the garrison and let Constance know we’ll be along shortly.”

“You sure?” the larger man asked.

“Yes, quite sure,” Athos confirmed, knowing well that Constance would take one look at Porthos and ensure he got the medical attention he required.

With a nod of acknowledgement, the large man turned his horse and moved off in the opposite direction. Aramis waited for nearly a minute before he nudged d’Artagnan’s shoulder, moving him towards a spot where he could sit.

To be continued...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The following line is from Monty Python’s Quest for the Holy Grail: “What are you going to do, bleed on me?”


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She hadn’t managed to do more than lay her hand on the doorknob when a hoarse shout of pain erupted from within. Constance’s heart skipped a beat as she rushed to get inside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to AZGirl for catching my typos; all remaining mistakes are mine.

“Not again,” the Gascon groaned in dismay as he was encouraged to sit.

“You’d prefer to keep bleeding and then have to explain to your lovely wife why so much of your blood is on the outside instead of inside where it belongs?” Aramis asked.

d’Artagnan merely rolled his eyes as he sat down, knowing well that he was beaten as soon as the other man had mentioned Constance. Contact between his backside and the seat reminded him of the earlier beating he’d endured at the hands, or in this case, boots of the Red Guards. The flare of pain he felt caused a full body flinch that in turn tugged at the knife wound on his side. “Merde,” he softly cursed as he pressed a hand against his flank. 

“Let’s see,” Aramis coaxed as he gently moved the Gascon’s gloved hand from the wound. He looked up as Athos set his medical bag within reach, immediately pausing his examination to reach inside of it. A minute later, the medic pressed a damp piece of linen into d’Artagnan’s hands, motioning towards his face. “Wipe some of the blood from your face before you scare someone.” The words held an undercurrent of teasing, but the younger man easily caught the hidden message that remained unsaid: _you scared us._

Athos remained standing and positioned himself on d’Artagnan’s other side, hoping to distract the young man while Aramis worked. “What happened?”

Swiping at his face with the cloth, the Gascon considered his response before letting his hands drop to his sides. “He caught me unaware,” he began, pausing a moment later to hiss in pain as the marksman lifted d’Artagnan’s shirt up and began to wipe the blood away from around his wound. “He disappeared into that alley where you found me, and I was too focused on catching up to him to consider the possibility of a trap.” His eyes closed tightly for a moment as he swallowed down a moan of pain.

“Sorry,” Aramis said lowly. “Almost done,” he continued as he finished cleaning the skin around the wound.

d’Artagnan glanced downwards, seeing the slice in his skin for the first time. “Doesn’t look too bad,” he remarked, unaware of the look of disbelief that appeared on Athos’ face.

“Any idea what he stabbed you with?” the medic asked, wanting to better understand how deeply the blade had penetrated.

“Dagger,” the Gascon gasped as Aramis pressed on the flesh around the damaged area. Giving the marksman a quick glare, he continued. “Didn’t go in far, though. I could feel how it caught in the fabric of my cloak and doublet.”

“Mm,” Aramis hummed in apparent agreement. “I believe you are correct, but it’ll still need stitches.”

Standing above them both, Athos muttered softly, “Thank God for stupid criminals.”

“Indeed,” Aramis smiled broadly.

“What’s that you’re doing ‘ere?” an unknown voice interjected. The men had been so focused on d’Artagnan’s injuries that they hadn’t noticed the arrival of a fourth man.

Turning to face the newcomer, Athos’ eyebrows immediately lifted in surprise. The new arrival was dressed somewhat outlandishly, wearing a deep purple doublet, decorated around the neck and cuffs with gold-coloured lace, and a pair of dark breeches. At his neck, both his doublet and the white shirt layered beneath it opened to reveal the man’s hairy chest, upon which rested a large, gaudy-looking cross. Ruffled cuffs poked out from both sleeves to meet up with pudgy fingers covered in a multitude of rings. But the most astonishing thing by far was the multi-colored bird seated on the man’s shoulder, as if perching there to take advantage of the cover provided by the man’s wide-brimmed hat.

“Monsieur?” Athos asked with a note of warning in his tone. He hated the fact that he hadn’t even noticed the man’s approach and blamed his steadily throbbing head for the lapse.

Before the stranger could respond, Aramis’ voice interrupted. “Lariviere, what are you doing here?”

“You know this man?” the captain asked as he glanced down at the marksman.

Rising to his feet as he wiped the blood from his hands, Aramis explained, “He’s the one that led us to Frontenac.”

“You are clearly mistaken, monsieur,” the man protested. “My name is Allard.”

Aramis peered closely at the man, certain that this was the same person they’d watched perform the odd puppet show. “Are you sure?” he asked, unable to help himself.

“I’m quite certain, monsieur,” Allard stated.

Not yet convinced, the marksman tried once more. “Do you have a brother then? A twin perhaps, who looks just like you?”

Allard was already shaking his head, but before he could reply, the bird on his shoulder squawked. “Nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition.”

The Musketeers all jolted in surprise, d’Artagnan hissing when the movement painfully jarred his wound and Athos lifting a hand to his temple for a moment as the ache in his skull escalated.

Staring incredulously at the parrot, Athos asked, “Did your bird just speak?”

“Oh, yes,” the man replied proudly. “He’s a smart one, he is.”

Slowly, the Gascon was rising from his seat, and he leaned closer to Allard before asking, “Why is he wearing an eye patch?”

“Oh, that was an unfortunate accident,” Allard began, before being cut off by the bird.

“Mind yer own business, you oaf!” the parrot screeched in reply.

d’Artagnan jerked backwards in shock. Deciding that the situation was beginning to get out of hand, Athos placed a hand on Allard’s arm to lead him away.

“No need to concern yourself with us,” he said. “We’re on Musketeer business. You can be on your way.”

Allard began to protest, looking back over his shoulder at d’Artagnan who’d retaken his seat. “But I’ve a right to know what’s going on.”

“Nothing is going on,” Athos insisted as he pushed at the man’s arm a little harder to get him moving. The pain in his head was becoming impossible to ignore, and with it went his last shred of patience. “Now, please, move along.”

As Allard reluctantly began to move away, the parrot added his own protest. “Come and see the violence inherent in the system. Help! Help! I’m being repressed.”

The bird’s comment had Athos glaring at its owner, and Allard had the good sense to appear somewhat contrite. “That’s enough now, Etienne,” he murmured to the bird. “Musketeers don’t want us pryin’ into their business.”

Athos let out a sigh of relief as the odd man shuffled away, allowing him to return to d’Artagnan’s side.

“All done,” Aramis stated as he repacked his needle and thread. At Athos’ inquiring look, he explained, “I couldn’t waste that wonderful distraction.”

“Quite,” the captain agreed dryly, a hint of a smile playing on his lips as the relief of knowing the young man wasn’t seriously hurt settled over him.

“You can stand up now, d’Artagnan, and I’ll bandage this for you to keep it clean,” the medic said.

The Gascon did as he’d been asked and held his clothes up and out of the way while Aramis circled his middle with several feet of white linen. Tying the end off, the medic stepped back. “That should hold as long as you don’t do anything too strenuous.”

“Strenuous?” d’Artagnan asked innocently as he fixed his clothes.

“Chasing after criminals,” Aramis began.

“Fighting with said criminals in alleyways,” Athos added.

“Falling off horses,” Aramis added cheekily with a meaningful glance in Athos’ direction.

“Falling from horses?” d’Artagnan repeated. “When did I…” he trailed off in confusion.

“Sorry, not you,” the marksman replied, his eyes still firmly fixed on Athos’ pinched expression. The older man might have rolled his eyes if not for the fact that the action would have ratcheted up the pain in his skull. Instead, he offered a slight tilt of his head in acknowledgement. Satisfied, Aramis returned his attention to the younger man. “Still, you understand our point.”

“Fine, fine,” the Gascon replied, holding his hands up in supplication while a smile graced his face. “I won’t do anything you’d disapprove of.”

“Let’s get you back to the garrison so that sweet wife of yours can dote on you,” Aramis teased, throwing an arm gently around d’Artagnan’s shoulder.

“So we can interrogate Frontenac,” the Gascon corrected, his expression immediately turning wary as he sensed he might be cut out of the mission once more.

Choosing not to argue, Athos and Aramis merely guided their friend to where the horses waited, the former silently thanking whatever divine intervention had caused Aramis and Porthos to bring the Gascon’s horse along with them.

“Do you need any help up?” Athos asked as he watched d’Artagnan standing next to his mount, but not making any move to climb into the saddle.

Thinking he’d missed something important, Aramis was already coming back to the Gascon’s side, a frown of concern marring his features. The expression on the medic’s face made d’Artagnan flush with embarrassment as he replied, “I don’t need any help. It’s just that…” He trailed off for a moment as he struggled with what he needed to say.

Lowering his voice so that both men had to strain to hear him, he went on, “It hurts when I sit.” Several moments passed in silence, making the young man huff. “With my sore _backside_,” he gritted out the word. “I expect riding will be quite painful.”

Aramis had to bite his lip to stop the laughter that was trying to escape. A glance in Athos’ direction showed an expression of mirth that had the medic’s lips twisting upwards into a slight grin. “Sorry, d’Artagnan, sorry,” Aramis said as he saw annoyance flash across the young man’s features. “You’re right, of course, and pain is no laughing matter.” He was pleased with himself when he managed the statement with a mostly straight face.

Noting that the Gascon was beginning to get truly upset, Athos interjected. “Aramis, take the horses back to the garrison and check on Porthos. d’Artagnan and I will join you shortly.”

The older man could see the words of protest gathering on the Gascon’s lips, and he offered a wordless plea to stay silent. At the look in Athos’ eyes, d’Artagnan’s features softened and relaxed, and he threw the older man a nod of gratitude instead.

As Aramis rode away, Athos fell into step beside the Gascon, slowing his pace so the younger man could easily keep up. Moments later, the patter of rain sounded on his hat, and his lips lifted minutely at the soft curse he heard next to him. 

* * *

They walked in silence, and d’Artagnan couldn’t help but feel grateful. Given his body’s many protests, compounded by his fatigue, he wasn’t certain he could have kept up any sort of intelligent conversation with his mentor. Little did he know that Athos was feeling the same way due to his earlier, graceless dismount.

The first few minutes of their walk, he’d been thankful to have been spared the pain of riding, and his relief had helped to mask some of many areas of his body that ached. Now that they’d been walking for a while, his relief was rapidly turning into intense discomfort, and he was beginning to doubt his ability to make it back under his own power.

As if sensing his deteriorating condition, Athos gave his shoulder a gentle nudge as he said, “This way.” The fog of pain that was enveloping him was growing thicker by the second, so d’Artagnan merely adjusted his direction as Athos had indicated. Moments later, he was surprised to find himself stopped by a hand on his shoulder, the hold now repositioning him until he was face to face with the older man’s worry-filled eyes.

“Are you alright, d’Artagnan?” Athos asked, his hand remaining where it was to support the younger man.

“Fine, Athos, how’re you?” The frown on the older man’s face made d’Artagnan wonder if he’d given Athos the wrong answer, but his mind couldn’t grasp why that might be.

“We’ll just wait here for a moment,” the captain replied, maneuvering them both until their backs were pressed against the side of a building, blessedly protected from the falling rain by its overhang.

d’Artagnan thought he might have zoned out for a while then, as the next thing he knew he was being helped into the back of a wagon by his friend. He slumped down against one side, immediately wincing in pain. The sharp discomfort brought him somewhat out of his fugue. “Athos, no, I can’t.”

The older man merely sat down beside him, close enough that their shoulders and legs were touching. “Just rest against me, d’Artagnan. We’ll be home before you know it.”

The Gascon threw Athos a look of doubt, but did as he was instructed, allowing his body to slowly melt into the supporting body at his side. He barely noticed it when the wagon began to move and was deeply asleep on his captain’s shoulder by the time they pulled into the garrison courtyard.

As expected, Constance and Aramis were waiting for them, the former wearing an expression of concern while the latter smirked with the knowledge of the mother-henning awaiting the young man. d’Artagnan barely stirred as he was lifted from the back of the wagon, carried into his quarters, stripped of his wet clothes, and gently deposited on his bed. Not even Constance undressing him and Aramis rechecking his wounds managed to wake him.

When the two were done, Constance pulled a blanket up to cover her husband’s bare chest. As Aramis headed for the door, she followed, closing it softly behind her so they wouldn’t disturb the Gascon. “Will he be alright?” she asked, needing reassurance from the group’s medic.

Taking Constance’s hand in his own, Aramis replied, “He’ll be fine. The blood loss, although not severe, will leave him feeling tired and a bit weak, and we’ll need to keep an eye on his ribs. Everything else is a minor inconvenience.”

Pulling her hand from Aramis’, she scoffed. “Minor inconvenience. Leave it to a soldier to dismiss cuts and contusions as mere trifles.”

Softening his tone, the medic tried once more. “Constance, I know you do not want to hear this, but d’Artagnan is strong and he’s endured much worse. Dote on him as you will, but do not forget that compared to the last four years, this really is nothing.”

The comment made Constance’s breath hitch as she was reminded of everything her husband – and the others – had survived. With a soft sob, she gave Aramis a desperate hug. “I’m so sorry, Aramis. What you all endured…”

Forcefully, but not unkindly, the marksman pulled away from the embrace, holding onto her arms with his hands as he said, “No, not me, them. The three of them.”

Constance nodded. “Sorry, I forget sometimes that you weren’t with them.”

“But I’m with them now, and I ask you to trust me that d’Artagnan will be fine.” At Constance’s tremulous smile, he added, “Just don’t spoil him too much, or he’ll be expecting us to cater to his every whim.”

The comment drew a genuine bark of laughter from her, and he smiled in reply. “Now, go, tend to your husband. Tomorrow, we’ll need him ready to work again.”

As he dropped his hands from Constance’s arms, she caught one of them and squeezed. “Thank you, Aramis.” With a last charming smile, he left, leaving her to stand outside the door for several minutes as she contemplated their conversation.

Finally shaking herself from her thoughts, she resolved to return to her husband’s side. She hadn’t managed to do more than lay her hand on the doorknob when a hoarse shout of pain erupted from within. Constance’s heart skipped a beat as she rushed to get inside.

To be continued...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The following lines are from Monty Python’s Quest for the Holy Grail:
> 
> “Nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition.”  
“Come and see the violence inherent in the system. Help! Help! I’m being repressed.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The marksman resisted the urge to place a hand on her shoulder. “Constance, you can’t blame yourself for this.” He was startled when she whirled back around to face him, a thunderous expression on her face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the great reactions to the last chapter. Hope you enjoy this next part!

The loud cry startled Constance badly, causing her hand to jerk and slip from the doorknob. Before she could replace it, Athos was there pushing his way past her and into their quarters. She didn’t even have time to voice her confusion before Aramis was moving past her as well, the marksman striding quickly into the bedroom where d’Artagnan lay.

When she’d recovered enough to remember to move, she followed the men into her sleeping quarters. Athos was already seated on the bed next to the Gascon’s hip, one hand pressing gently against his bandage-covered chest, while the other carded through his still damp locks.

Aramis had stopped at the end of the bed and was watching the scene with rapt attention. The sight caused Constance to hesitate at the entrance to the room, a myriad of questions caught in her throat as she tried to figure out what to do.

Several long seconds later, the decision was taken from her hands as Athos met the marksman’s gaze. A moment of silent communication passed between the two before Aramis turned and neatly took Constance by the arm, escorting her back out the way they’d come. As they passed through the doorway, his one hand expertly snagged the door, pulling it shut behind them.

Constance stopped two steps later, refusing to move another inch without some sort of explanation. Her expression was a mixture of confusion and dread as she pinned Aramis with a hard stare. “What the devil was that?” she demanded, the slight tremble in her voice betraying her worry.

Clasping her hands as he had earlier, Aramis explained. “Remember those awful things d’Artagnan and the others experienced while at war?” Constance gave a slight nod. “Not all of their pain was physical in nature.” He trailed off, uncomfortable trying to represent something that he himself hadn’t endured. At least, not this version.

Taking control of the situation, Constance steadied her voice as she said, “You mean nightmares.”

Aramis’ lips ticked upwards slightly at her quick comprehension of things, his face becoming sombre again almost immediately. “How has he been sleeping?”

She frowned at the question, thinking back on the weeks since her husband’s return. The early days hadn’t been easy, despite their genuine joy at being reunited. During the daylight hours, d’Artagnan had been attentive and observant, noting how things had changed both within the garrison and without. They’d spoken of some of those changes, and he’d expressed pride at how Constance had adjusted to her new life, and especially her new role supporting the regiment.

Their evenings had been filled with passion as two souls, separated for too long, rediscovered each other. She’d catalogued each new scar that had been added to his lean body in the hours she lay next to him, sated and euphoric to have him back at her side. She’d slept deeply those first nights, only to be woken partway through as d’Artagnan mumbled and thrashed, reliving one horror or another while his defenses were down.

They’d spoken briefly of his nightmares and then they eventually seemed to have faded away, leaving Constance believing she was the balm to her husband’s soul, and that his days of suffering were at an end. Now, she began to wonder if she’d been completely wrong.

“He had some nightmares for the first few weeks, but then we talked, and they seemed to stop,” Constance said. “I honestly can’t remember the last time I was woken by one of his bad dreams.” Aramis smiled sadly, prompting her to ask, “They didn’t stop, did they?”

The marksman shook his head as he replied. “Probably not; no. Porthos and Athos have both been experiencing them, too.” He paused a moment as he considered whether or share their secret; the pleading in Constance’s eyes convinced him to add, “We’ve been taking it in turns staying with one another. Most nights, two or all three of us are together, and it seems to help.”

Constance’s face dropped with devastation. “I thought I’d be enough,” she breathed out, pulling her hands from Aramis’ to clench them against her chest. “I believed he was doing better.” She dropped both hands to her sides, turning from the marksman as she repeated, “I believed him.” Her tone had turned hard, and her back was taut with tension, warning Aramis to stay away.

The marksman resisted the urge to place a hand on her shoulder. “Constance, you can’t blame yourself for this.” He was startled when she whirled back around to face him, a thunderous expression on her face.

“Blame myself! Are you out of your mind?” she asked as she poked a finger into his chest. “This isn’t my fault, unless you count being foolish enough to believe my husband. He hid this from me!” Her voice grew louder as her ire increased. “And you!” She poked at Aramis’ chest once more. “If you knew the others were struggling, why didn’t you say anything?” Constance watched as Aramis faltered, his expression shifting to the guilt he’d accused her of moments ago. The realization was like a dousing of cold water, extinguishing her anger and leaving only her concern behind.

They stood there awkwardly for several seconds, neither knowing how to break the silence that had fallen. Finally, Constance asked, “Will he alright? With Athos, I mean.”

A slight smile found its way onto Aramis’ face as he recognized the peace offering. “Yes, I think this is the best thing for him.” He winced a moment later as he realized what he’d said. “I don’t mean that you shouldn’t…that you aren’t…” he trailed off, unable to remember the last time a woman had managed to so completely fluster him. His stuttered reply drew a soft laugh from her, and he sighed in relief.

“It’s alright, Aramis; I know what you meant,” she assured him. “If this is what Charles needs, I’m alright with sharing him for a while.” She turned away again, this time to start picking up the wet articles of clothing they’d stripped from her husband upon arrival. When Aramis didn’t move, she called over her shoulder, “Don’t you have another patient to check on?” The marksman took advantage of the opening she’d given him, hurrying out to check on Porthos, while also making a mental note to come back later to examine Athos’ head.

* * *

Athos didn’t know if he should be relieved or upset that his touch was so quickly able to settle the young Gascon. When he’d heard d’Artagnan’s cry, he’d immediately sped his pace, having already been on his way to see how the Gascon was doing. The thrashing and noises of distress emanating from the young man tore at his heart, and he’d found himself seated next to his friend without conscious thought.

He murmured more soft words of comfort as d’Artagnan’s demons clawed at him again, causing his breath to speed up and his head to toss on the pillow. As if by magic, the young man settled almost at once to the combination of Athos’ soothing voice and touch.

He’d discovered his effect on the Gascon by accident, instinctively reaching out to clasp his arm or lay a hand on his shoulder whenever d’Artagnan was feeling anxious and unsettled. Over time, as their friendship had grown, the touches had become more frequent and familiar, with Athos’ hand cupping the young man’s cheek or settling at the nape of his neck. Regardless of what was going on at the time, d’Artagnan responded, his breathing calming and his mind stilling in some sort of instinctive response to the older man’s presence.

When they had set out for war, Athos had no idea how important that bond between them would be, and how it would grow once more, becoming an almost unbreakable chain that tethered them both to reality and helped to shelter them from the horrors of what they were about to experience. On the nights after particularly vicious battles, they would seek one another out, needing their connection to ground them. They often included Porthos, his presence signifying the safety of their brotherhood, but the physical contact they craved was from each another.

Now, Athos both thanked and cursed that bond, grateful that he was able to help, but despising the experiences they’d endured that made his presence necessary. He moaned lowly and dropped his head to his chest as he heard Constance’s voice through the door. The sound was muted, not loud enough for him to understand what was being said, but he couldn’t imagine that she would thank him – or any of them – for supplanting her place at her husband’s side.

It was for this reason the men had stayed away. Since their return to their garrison, they’d sought each other’s company during the evening hours, knowing that the horrors of war were waiting for them as soon as they closed their eyes. Athos, in particular, had wanted to include d’Artagnan, but had been convinced by the others that it was now Constance’s place to help him through his nightmares.

Athos had unhappily relented, convincing himself that Constance would seek them out if things became too bad. When that didn’t happen, he’d fooled himself into thinking that everything was alright, that d’Artagnan wasn’t suffering as the rest of them had suffered, and that the young man no longer needed him the way he had during the years prior. It had been a bittersweet pill to swallow.

But then he’d begun to notice the Gascon’s appearance; his dull eyes, the weariness in his walk. The first stirrings of doubt and worry had emerged, and Athos wondered if he’d been wrong. He’d voiced those concerns to Aramis and Porthos, waiting until two bottles of wine had sufficiently numbed his nerves and given him the courage to suggest once more that d’Artagnan join their group during the night.

To their credit, Aramis and Porthos had worn pained expressions on their faces, and it was clear they missed the young man in their midst as much as Athos did. Still, they spoke of the marital bond and the need for a husband to sleep with his wife. The former comte had nothing he could say to that, understanding from his own time as a married man that the Gascon’s place was at Constance’s side. Still, he couldn’t help but feel they were somehow abandoning d’Artagnan.

Now he had the proof of his doubts before him. d’Artagnan still needed him – needed them – and he was conflicted about how he felt about that realization. He would do anything for the Gascon, his younger brother in all but blood, and he knew with an unwavering certainty that Constance would not be able to calm the young man the same way he could. Sighing softly, he hoped that the strong-willed woman had the sense to understand that.

Athos’ head came up as he recognized a different cadence to d’Artagnan’s breathing. Settling one hand on the young man’s head, he slowly moved his thumb across the skin at the Gascon’s temple. Moments later, d’Artagnan’s eyes fluttered open, the young man eased gently into consciousness by Athos’ soothing touch.

The older man smiled down as he remained in place, relieved beyond measure when the Gascon focused on his face. “Everyone is alright and you’re safe.” As the words registered, another bit of tension slipped from d’Artagnan’s body and he seemed to relax more fully into the mattress.

The Gascon’s eyes moved slowly around the room, taking in his surroundings. When he realized where he was, he licked his lips and said, “I didn’t know I was allowed to sleep in the middle of the day.”

Athos’ lips quirked upwards once more as he silently applauded d’Artagnan’s skill in fishing for information while appearing to already know. “It’s not exactly the middle of the day; closer to dinnertime, I’d say,” Athos replied, answering the unspoken question.

When the older man fell silent, the Gascon realized he’d have to ask what happened, since his spotty memory seemed to be failing him. “I don’t remember returning to the garrison,” he said, hoping that would prompt Athos to say more.

“No, I’m not surprised you don’t,” the captain replied, removing his hand from the young man’s head as he sat up straight and stretched his sore back muscles. A faint look of loss flitted across d’Artagnan’s face giving Athos a brief surge of pleasure. “You all but collapsed once we started walking back to the garrison.” He paused for any hints of recollection on the young man’s face, gratified when he saw the spark of memory appear.

“I had sent Aramis back to the garrison to check on Porthos. When he arrived, he made sure Jacques would be in the square with the wagon, believing that his patient was not nearly as well as he tried to appear,” Athos finished.

d’Artagnan had the grace to flush with embarrassment at the gentle admonishment. “I really _did_ think I could walk back,” he said. Athos merely tipped his chin in reply. “I suppose I was more sore and tired than I realized,” he finally added.

Athos squeezed the Gascon’s arm in reply, accepting the unspoken apology, even as his mind was processing the young man’s words. His brain still ached from his earlier fall, slowing his thinking in a most annoying way. Several long seconds passed before he grasped onto the word that was bothering him. Narrowing his eyes while trying to maintain a neutral tone, he asked, “Why tired?”

For a split-second, an expression of panic showed on d’Artagnan’s face, but it was gone almost as quickly as it had appeared. He began to make motions to sit up as he asked, “Have we gotten anything from Frontenac yet?”

Athos stopped him with a hand on his chest, his expression hard and unforgiving as he cocked his head to one side in expectation of an answer.

“Fine,” d’Artagnan breathed out as he let his body slip back onto the mattress.

Removing his hand, Athos crossed his arms and waited for the Gascon to begin speaking.

To be continued...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to AZGirl for catching my typos; all remaining mistakes are mine.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What on earth were you thinking?” she demanded, the volume of her voice making both men cringe.

Porthos was just drying his neck and chest when Aramis let himself in, announcing himself only with a short rap of his knuckles against the door before immediately opening it. Having expected the marksman would be coming to check on him, Porthos merely finished what he was doing before hanging the damp towel and nodding to his friend who stood just inside the door.

Aramis whistled lowly at the impressive bruising that covered a good portion of the larger man's right side. Porthos glanced down at it, not in the least embarrassed to be caught shirtless, before moving slowly to sit down at the small table in one corner of his room. The marksman observed the way in which his friend winced as he settled into a chair, letting out a sigh of relief once his body was settled.

"Yeah, he got me good," Porthos said, closing his eyes for a moment as he relished the ability to just be still. He listened as Aramis moved around the room, not worried in the least about what his friend might be up to. When he heard the second chair being moved and placed in front of him, he opened his eyes to see Aramis' worried expression.

"Don't suppose you'd believe me if I said Constance already checked me over?" the larger man asked as Aramis seated himself. As the marksman continued to lay out his supplies on the small table, Porthos grumbled, "Yeah, didn't think so."

When he was done arranging everything he'd need, Aramis met the larger man's gaze. "Tell me, honestly, where does it hurt?" He could see the wheels turning in Porthos' head as he considered how truthful he should be. "Don't worry, d'Artagnan will be in bed until tomorrow, and Athos will likely be following suit shortly. You won't miss anything by telling me where you're hurting; we won't speak to Frontenac until the morning."

Having had his primary concern alleviated, Porthos offered a slow nod before he replied. "My whole right side aches, but I'm pretty sure it's not anything serious." He paused a moment before continuing, his tone now reflecting his anxiety. "I'm not sure I can say the same about my shoulder."

Aramis kept his expression carefully neutral, recognizing his friend's fears immediately; if he couldn't use his right arm properly, then how would he be of any use to the Musketeers. "Let's have a look then, shall we?" he responded, keeping his tone light. He spent the next several minutes palpating the shoulder joint and checking Porthos' range of motion.

As the older man had indicated, the shoulder was incredibly tender and raising his arm more than a few inches above his waist was almost impossible. By the time Aramis was done, Porthos' face was covered with sweat, the discomfort of the examination easy to discern. Wordlessly, the marksman stood and accessed his friend's supply of alcohol, selecting a brandy that he recalled had quite a bite. Pouring a healthy measure into a glass, he handed it to the larger man who gulped it gratefully. Aramis retook his seat and waited a few moments longer until the strong brandy had taken the edge off the pain.

"Well?" Porthos asked expectantly.

"It's not dislocated," Aramis began, pausing for a moment at the other man's soft, "Thank God."

The medic smiled momentarily before turning serious once more. "Actually, it might have been easier if your arm was out of the joint. In this case, I believe the muscles around it have been severely strained and it will take several weeks of not using that arm for them to heal."

Porthos wordlessly raised his empty glass, the medic obligingly moving to refill it. When he'd emptied it for a second time, the larger man asked, "You're sure?"

"As certain as I can be with my limited knowledge," Aramis replied, doubt for the first time creeping into his voice. "Listen, we should have the doctor look at it."

Before he could say more to convince his friend, Porthos interjected, "Can't. The last doctor we had 'ere was sent up to the front. Athos hasn't found anyone to replace 'im yet."

Aramis sighed softly at the reminder. He'd known that the doctor was gone, of course, but the last few hours had rattled him. Pressing the fingers of one hand tiredly against his eyes, he murmured, "You're correct, of course." Dropping his hand from his face, he said, "Perhaps Treville could arrange for someone from the palace to have a look."

Seeing the uncertainty in his friend's expression, Porthos placed his left hand on the marksman's upper arm and squeezed gently. "If you say it's strained muscles, then that's what it is." He saw Aramis draw breath to protest and cut him off with a raised eyebrow. "If it doesn't improve in a week or two, we can always ask Treville then." He locked gazes with the medic for several long seconds, watching as Aramis seemed to war with himself. "'Mis, I trust you."

His friend's trust was the tipping point and Aramis gave a small dip of his chin in agreement. "Alright, if you promise you'll see a doctor if this gets any worse."

With a hint of a smirk on his face, Porthos replied, "Don't have to promise. We both know you'll drag me to a doctor whether I want to go or not, and Athos and d'Artagnan will help you do it." The moment of levity brought smiles to both their faces, but it didn't last long as Porthos' thoughts turned to their friends. "How are the two of them?"

Aramis leaned back, scrubbing both hands across his face before letting them drop to his lap. "I think we owe them an apology." Another raised eyebrow from the larger man prompted him to continue. "d'Artagnan was having a nightmare, and I don't think this is the first time."

"Athos was right," Porthos breathed out. "But he seemed to be doing well," he added a moment later. "Besides, he's got Constance."

Aramis snorted in reply. "The fair Madame d'Artagnan isn't happy with us right now." He grew quieter as he looked down at his lap. "I told her, about us."

"Nothing to be ashamed of 'Mis, and it sounds like she needed to know," Porthos reassured his friend. "Athos is with him now?" Aramis nodded in confirmation. "Good, the two of them have been out of sorts ever since we got back. I know d'Artagnan's married, but that doesn't mean he doesn't still need his brothers."

The comment made Aramis lift his face and brought a smile to his lips. "It seems that Constance would agree with your assessment."

Porthos grinned in reply. "I always knew she was a smart one."

Aramis smiled back for a moment before asking, "Then why did we doubt that she would understand d'Artagnan's need for our company?" The question made the mirth disappear from the large man's face.

After several seconds of silence, Porthos answered, "Because we're not as smart as she is." They were quiet for another short while before he posed another question. "Think we can convince d'Artagnan?"

Aramis grinned widely as he recalled Constance's ire with her husband. "I don't believe he'll have much say in the matter." Silently, he opened the jar of witch hazel for Porthos' bruises, intending to apply the salve and bind his friend's arm before he left.

* * *

Unconsciously, d'Artagnan moved his hand to cradle his broken ribs as he considered what to tell Athos. Saying he was tired had been a serious error, and he now needed to tell the older man something that would alleviate his concerns. Given the expression the captain was now wearing, it would be a fine balancing act to offer enough of the truth without giving away his secrets completely.

"You know what it was like at the front," he began, seeking out Athos' gaze and seeing understanding there. "Some days were just worse than others, and recently, I've had some bad days."

Recognizing the Gascon's propensity to downplay whatever he was dealing with, Athos' treaded carefully. "These _bad days_ have kept you from getting a proper rest?"

d'Artagnan grinned cheekily in a way that was so him, part charm and part impetuous youngster, the effect meant to distract and disarm. Shrugging one shoulder carefully, he replied, "Let's just say I'm not as rested as I would like."

"Mm," Athos hummed. "So this isn't anything I need to concern myself with?"

"Exactly," the Gascon replied, the grin on his face even wider than before.

Narrowing his eyes at the younger man, Athos kept his voice low and even as he said, "So the fact that you haven't been sleeping well, which has now gone on for several days," he paused and got a nod in reply from d'Artagnan. "That along with the fact that you have been stumbling around in a fog for weeks now, culminating in your swoon earlier today…"

"Hey, I didn't swoon," the Gascon protested.

Pinning the young man with a steely gaze, Athos countered, "How could you possibly know when you were unconscious?"

d'Artagnan shifted uncomfortably on the bed, his eyes skittering away from his mentor's as he moaned softly at the discomfort his movement caused him. Athos moved immediately, shifting forward to place a hand on his friend's chest to still his actions. He closed his eyes for several moments as his vision tunneled with the quick movement, opening them again to see the Gascon's watching him with concern.

"What happened to you?" d'Artagnan asked, now genuinely worried about his friend.

Athos resisted touching the split skin on the back of his skull, swallowing thickly as he regained his equilibrium. "I'll tell you because I can see your concern for me. In return, you'll do me the same courtesy. Agreed?"

The previous tension returned to the young man's frame, but he offered a grudging nod in reply. "I fell off my horse while avoiding two children pulling a cart." Athos' lips quirked slightly as he added, "It was not my best dismount."

The comment drew a soft chuckle that was aborted quickly as d'Artagnan's broken ribs reminded him of their presence. He let out a low moan of pain as he waited for the discomfort to pass. Athos waited patiently, and once the lines of pain had eased, he asked, "How long have you been unable to sleep?"

The Gascon knew he owed his mentor the truth, but that didn't make the admission any easier. Biting his lip for a moment, he finally replied, "Almost since we arrived back in Paris."

Athos' heart stuttered for a moment, the revelation not unexpected but one he'd hoped to be wrong about. Where anger should have flared, guilt flowed instead, and he let out a long, sudden exhale at the knowledge that he'd let his brother down so thoroughly. The abrupt, pained look on Athos' face startled d'Artagnan. "Athos, are you alright? Do you need a doctor?"

The captain gave a small shake of his head, lifting his chin from his chest where it had fallen in his shock. The Gascon was stunned at the look of desolation in the older man's eyes, his hand moving of its own accord to grasp Athos' wrist. "What's wrong?"

"We were wrong," the captain replied, his voice broken. "_I _was wrong. I sensed that you might be struggling but I didn't intervene. I should have known better. What kind of commander – what kind of friend lets another suffer alone?"

d'Artagnan was astounded at his mentor's response. He'd expected anger and even disappointment, but not regret and certainly not guilt. That he had made his brother feel so badly erased any misgivings about being honest with the older man. "Athos, it's not your fault. I hid it, from everyone. Not even Constance knows. If anyone is to blame, it is me. I should have come to you and the others sooner and asked for your help." He trailed off, uncertain how to continue and tell Athos his greatest fear.

As if sensing the Gascon was holding something back, the older man pressed for more. "Then why didn't you?"

d'Artagnan's hands moved to the blanket that covered him, his fingers picking idly at a loose thread while his unfocused gaze fell somewhere on the opposite wall. The seconds slowly ticked by and multiplied until more than a minute had passed in silence, Athos biding his time as the Gascon decided whether or not to answer.

Finally, he drew breath to speak, his eyes still turned away from the older man. "Constance," he breathed out, hoping Athos would understand rather than forcing him to explain further.

It was exactly the reason Athos and the others had stayed away. The marriage, while technically four years old, was still fresh and new, with both d'Artagnan's feeling more like newlyweds than an old married couple. The former comte was very familiar with the Gascon's devotion to his bride, and it was easy to understand that d'Artagnan would have felt compelled to do whatever was necessary to ensure his wife's happiness, even at his own expense.

For some reason, none of them had believed that Constance might understand her husband's need for his brothers, the men who had been his only family during four harsh years where survival was the only imperative. Worse yet, none of them had been courageous enough to ask, or to attempt explaining even a fraction of the horrors they'd endured, instead choosing to protect her rather than gaining her empathy and support.

The thoughts swirled around in Athos' aching head, and the pain spiked warningly, letting him know that he was quickly approaching his limits. Scrubbing a hand tiredly across his face, he repeated d'Artagnan's answer. "Constance."

As if summoned by the men, the door flew open and Madame d'Artagnan appeared, her delicate features marred by anger and her arms full of wet clothes. "What on earth were you thinking?" she demanded, the volume of her voice making both men cringe.

To be continued...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to AZGirl for catching my typos; all remaining mistakes are mine.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Before the Gascon could say anything more, the older man folded nearly in half and gagged helplessly, the pain in his head having reached a point where he could no longer ignore it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the continued support for this story. Your comments put a huge smile on my face. Hope you enjoy this next part!

Athos looked from one d’Artagnan to the other, just as startled as his friend at his wife’s entrance, but relatively certain that her ire was aimed at her husband and not at him. Constance was practically vibrating with pent up emotion, and he couldn’t help but wonder what could have possibly made her so upset.

His gaze shifted to the bundle she held in her arms, noting the white of her knuckles as she clenched the mass of fabric and leather in her hands. Glancing in d’Artagnan’s direction he saw his own expression mirrored there, the young man just as surprised and baffled by his wife’s words as he was.

Carefully, he cleared his throat, needing to interject while at the same time hesitant to break the fragile silence that had fallen. When two sets of eyes landed on him, he adopted his most authoritative tone, while at the same time keeping his volume low and even. “Perhaps you could give us a better idea of what you’re referring to, Constance?” He hoped the fact that the question came from him rather than her husband would elicit a more reasonable response.

Athos’ approach seemed to have the desired effect with Constance flushing and momentarily looking away. When she looked back, she appeared more composed and addressed the older man when she replied. “Captain, would you care to explain to me why my _idiot_ of a husband,” she paused and threw a glare in d’Artagnan’s direction. “Why he would be running around entirely soaked?”

The older man’s mouth engaged before his brain, and he would later blame the lapse on the distracting pounding of his head. “It started raining again.” He could get no further before Constance interrupted, clearly unimpressed by his reply.

Turning her fury on the regiment’s commander, she rhetorically asked, “Do you think I’m stupid?”

Athos’ face telegraphed his confusion, leading Constance to shake her head as she mumbled under her breath, “Aramis really needs to check you out if you don’t realize the idiocy of your statement.” Taking a moment to collect herself, she tried again. “Why has he been walking around in wet boots, Athos?”

“Wet boots?” he repeated, still puzzled.

Constance dropped most of what she held, releasing her grip on everything but one sodden boot. As she held it upside down, Athos watched the trickle of water that came out. He frowned at the sight, innately knowing there was something wrong with what he’d just seen, but unable to articulate what as his brain slowly began shutting down. “I don’t understand,” he finally managed, a part of his mind recognizing inadequacy of his response.

“He’s been walking around in wet boots, Athos!” Constance declared, her volume rising once again as her hold on her emotions faltered.

“Now, Constance, I can explain,” d’Artagnan began, finally having found the courage needed to confront his wife.

Next to him, Athos blanched, Constance’s voice having uncomfortably drilled into his fragile skull. Before the Gascon could say anything more, the older man folded nearly in half and gagged helplessly, the pain in his head having reached a point where he could no longer ignore it.

Simultaneously, the room’s other two occupants reached for him, Constance dropping the boot to rush forward, while d’Artagnan leaned over to grab his friend’s arm. The movement was ill-advised with the Gascon’s numerous injuries, and he fell back almost at once, a cry of pain torn from his lips. The sound was the final straw for Athos who began to retch, his features pale and his body trembling with sickness.

While d’Artagnan lay back practically hugging himself, Constance sat down beside Athos and drew him into a sideways embrace, supporting him while he emptied his stomach of the small amount of liquid it contained. She turned her head away from the smell but remained in place until Athos sagged in her arms after his bout of sickness.

She looked from one man to the other, recognizing that d’Artagnan wasn’t in any fit state to help her while she was virtually trapped holding Athos up. “Bugger,” she swore softly under her breath, only to smile moments later when she heard footsteps, followed by Aramis’ voice.

“You look like you could use a hand,” the medic announced himself, stopping just inside the door.

Though her back was to the man, she could hear the amusement in his voice. Doing her best to hide her pleasure at his arrival she replied, “Don’t just stand there, then; make yourself useful already.”

* * *

When d’Artagnan awoke, the room was illuminated with candlelight, leaving long shadows stretching across the ceiling and walls. His mouth was dry, and he recognized the familiar remnants of one of Aramis’ pain draughts. The thought had him casting his mind back and remembering the day’s earlier events: he and Athos talking, Constance’s angry arrival, his friend’s sickness and subsequent collapse.

Aramis had arrived just at the right time. d’Artagnan had wanted to help, but the pain from his ribs and stab wound had all but paralyzed his lungs. It had taken several long minutes for his breathing to return to normal, and he recalled the look of carefully controlled fear on Constance’s face as she dutifully assisted with Athos, while still managing to keep an eye on her husband.

Aramis had insisted he consume a pain draught, and d’Artagnan had been too weary and in too much discomfort to resist. Within minutes, he was in a comfortable, pain-free haze, watching as the two took care of Athos. The older man had been placed on the bed next to him, allowing Aramis to clean and stitch to gash on his scalp. The Gascon didn’t actually remember when the medic had finished, succumbing to the draught’s sedative qualities before he’d been done.

Lazily, he rolled his head to one side, surprised to find Athos still sleeping next to him. His face was still pinched with pain, and he wondered idly why Aramis would allow that.

“He couldn’t keep anything down,” Aramis replied, as if having read d’Artagnan’s mind.

The Gascon startled, not yet having realized that there was another person in the room. The marksman chuckled softly. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.” From the expression of mirth on Aramis’ face, d’Artagnan wasn’t sure if he believed the man.

“How are you feeling?” Aramis asked. “You slept for a long time.”

d’Artagnan pondered the question as he stock of himself. Though the pain draught had begun to wear off, there was still enough left in his system to keep him comfortable and slightly lethargic. The pain in his stomach and chest was muted, and he really only knew the bruises were there because his body’s weight rested on them. “Good, I think.”

Aramis observed him for several long seconds, as if confirming the veracity of his answer, before nodding slowly in agreement. “The rest seems to have agreed with you.” He paused, considering whether or not to continue. Drawing a steadying breath as he reached his decision, he said, “I understand your sleep hasn’t been too restful as of late.” He let the words drop and then waited to see how his friend would reply.

d’Artagnan’s face showed a moment of surprise before understanding dawned. Of course his friends would have discussed their concerns, and if Athos knew he hadn’t been sleeping well, the others would know also. Offering a slightly sheepish grin, he replied, “No, not really. I probably should have said something before now, but I…” He trailed off, not wanting to finish the statement and disclose his vulnerabilities.

“You didn’t want to worry us or Constance,” Aramis finished for him with a soft smile of his own.

“No,” d’Artagnan breathed out quietly in agreement.

“Your wife is an exceptionally strong woman, you know,” Aramis stated with a knowing expression on his face. “I think we owe it to her to give her more credit; I believe we all did her a disservice by underestimating her.”

The comment piqued d’Artagnan’s interest and he looked expectantly at the marksman to continue. Restraining himself from rolling his eyes, Aramis went on. “d’Artagnan, Constance has been widowed, then she married a soldier only to have her new husband go off to war. She not only survived your time apart but thrived, creating a new life for herself and excelling in her role here at the garrison. Does that really sound like someone who will crack easily?”

As he’d listened, the Gascon’s expression had transformed to one of immense pride, filling Aramis with a sense of satisfaction that his friend had understood and not taken his words the wrong way. The grin on the young man’s face had widened as his tired face had lit up. “No, she most definitely won’t,” he replied, still amazed that such an incredible woman would have chosen him for her husband. His smile slipping, he added, “I just didn’t want to add to her burden.”

Aramis let out a soft sigh. “While that was very gallant on your part, you must also remember that she’s your partner. In her mind, her role is to support and protect you, just as you do for her.”

A deep, indrawn breath from Athos drew their attention to the older man, noticing for the first time that his pain-filled eyes were open. In a voice gravelly from disuse, he said, “Aramis is correct; you should listen to him.” He made motions to sit up then, Aramis rushing to help him to an upright position.

The marksman shifted several pillows behind Athos’, leaving him in a semi-reclined position. By the time they’d finished, the captain’s face was once again pale and covered in a fine sheen of sweat, prompting Aramis to dampen a cloth in a bowl of water that sat on the table beside him and gently wiping the older man’s face.

Athos’ eyes fluttered open again at the attention, a look of gratitude on his face. “Are you certain you want to be sitting up?” Aramis asked in concern.

“Yes,” the older man answered at once. “This isn’t a conversation we should be having while I’m flat on my back.”

A look passed between him and Aramis, the latter giving a short nod of acknowledgement that Athos’ unspoken message had been received. Wordlessly, he dropped the used cloth back into a bowl of water on the table and then rose to his feet.

Having noticed the lightening sky outside, he said before he departed, “I’ll see if there’s anything light to eat in the kitchen.”

At Athos’ earlier words, d’Artagnan had also struggled to a more upright position, moving slowly and carefully in deference to his injured ribs and the hole in his side. Though Aramis had itched to help him, he’d recognized the warning expression on the younger man’s face that indicated his need to accomplish the task on his own.

Now that the two men were alone, Athos quietly admonished his friend for his stubbornness. “Aramis would have helped, had you asked.”

d’Artagnan’s face was still tight with pain, his body unhappy about being forced to move. “Didn’t want his help,” he replied, his voice thin and somewhat breathless.

Though Athos would have loved to say more, he wisely held his tongue, knowing there were more important discussions to be had. Returning to their earlier conversation, he repeated his previous statement. “Aramis is correct; Constance is your partner and should be treated as such. She won’t thank you for keeping the truth from her.”

Letting out a careful sigh, d’Artagnan replied, “I know, but I didn’t want her to think I was choosing all of you over her.”

Athos turned his head to look at the younger man, his furrowed brow reflecting his disapproval of his friend’s response. “d’Artagnan, it’s not a competition.” He paused for a moment as he realized the hypocrisy of his words, having felt jealous of Constance’s place in the young man’s life. Pushing the thought aside, he continued. “There is room enough for all of us, and Constance will understand that there are times when your brothers-in-arms are better suited to help you through certain challenges.”

The door to the bedroom opened, revealing Constance, Aramis and Porthos, the former two carrying trays filled with food and drinks. Porthos adeptly moved the bowl from the small bedside table, allowing Aramis to lay his tray down while Constance added hers to the end of the bed. Then they settled themselves close to their friends, Constance seating herself at her husband’s side, while Aramis and Porthos availed themselves of the two chairs that had been brought in earlier.

Although Constance was tempted to vent her anger, she instead pinned her husband with an intense look as she asked, “Are you feeling better?” Unaware of the conversations she’d had with the others, d’Artagnan merely nodded, wanting to tread carefully. “Good, then I trust that there will be no more secrets, and that you’ll seek out the others when you need to.” She didn’t explain any further, hoping that d’Artagnan would understand. He rewarded her with a bright smile in response.

She leaned forward to plant a chaste kiss on his lips, the brief contact in deference to the others in their room, but promising more once their privacy had been restored. “Then let’s eat.” Shifting her gaze to Athos who already wore a doubtful expression on his face, she said, “There’s some warm broth for you, Athos. You’ll do your best to keep it down.”

The other men’s faces wore wide grins, telling Athos he wouldn’t get any support against Constance’s wishes. Reluctantly, he took the cup that Porthos offered him, raising an eyebrow at the sling that supported the man’s right arm. “Aramis thinks the muscles are strained,” he replied to the unspoken question. “I’ll take it off when we go question Frontenac.”

“Surely that can wait until you’ve all recovered,” Constance protested, not liking the appearance of the men surrounding her.

Before anyone could respond, a knock on the outer door interrupted them. Raising his voice, Porthos called out, “Enter.” He threw Constance a look of apology as he did so; he understood the likelihood that one of the men was looking for the captain and thus could not be ignored. His instinct was proven correct a moment later when one of the recruits entered.

The newcomer blanched for a moment when he took in the scene before him, his commanding officer lying in bed with d’Artagnan, and surrounded by the others. It took him only a moment to recover and he headed directly for Athos, presenting him with a folded piece of parchment. “A message from the Minister, Captain.”

Athos handed the cup of broth to Porthos who had already extended a hand to receive it. The former comte unfolded the missive, scanning its contents quickly before giving a curt nod of dismissal to the recruit. As soon as they were alone again, he addressed the others. “We’ll have no rest today, I’m afraid. The king is pressing for an update and closure to the theft. We’ll need to speak with Frontenac as soon as possible to bring this to a close.” Wordlessly, everyone began to move, preparing themselves for the day ahead.

To be continued...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to AZGirl for catching my typos; all remaining mistakes are mine.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “That was a most unique method of gaining information.”

The entire time the men had been getting themselves ready for the day, either Constance or Aramis hovered over them with expressions of disapproval. Porthos’ bruises had deepened overnight, and his shoulder muscles had stiffened, making his rest fitful at best. That left him sore and in a foul mood, like a bear with a thorn in his paw. As the early morning had stretched on, he became less and less communicative, offering only the occasional grunt when necessary.

As he’d stated previously, he steadfastly refused to wear the sling while they questioned Frontenac, determined not to show any signs of weakness in front of the man who’d injured him. Offers of something for his pain were similarly rebutted. Once Aramis had helped him into his doublet, he’d tucked his right hand between two of the jacket’s clasps, the makeshift support the only concession he was willing to make to the marksman’s fussing.

Athos, meanwhile, had managed almost nothing in terms of food, and the creases around his eyes combined with his pallor showed clearly the poor night he’d spent. Though he’d eventually drifted off, his sleep had been less than restful and nowhere near long enough to combat the effects of the previous day’s exertions.

Aramis and Constance took it in turns to offer the captain a gentle nudge or to redirect him when his vision tunneled, making him stagger or sway dangerously in place. Madame d’Artagnan had eventually thrown up her hands in defeat when the former comte had attempted to put on his boots and nearly done a spectacular faceplant in the middle of her kitchen. d’Artagnan would, no doubt, have been quick to comment on his captain’s apparent swoon. At that point, Aramis had neatly stepped in, suggesting Constance go see how her husband was faring while he finished making their commander look presentable.

d’Artagnan had been the slowest of the three to get moving, though not due to a lack of trying. Now that the effects of the pain draught had worn off, his body felt each and every mistreatment he’d suffered and was loudly protesting even the slightest movement. To compound his troubles, he was beginning to feel decidedly unwell, a dull throb settling behind his eyes while his nose grew more and more plugged with each passing minute.

He’d made it as far as the side of the bed, which is where Constance found him. His feet were flat on the floor, the cool ground making him shiver, which merely aggravated the rest of his ills. With his head hanging down towards his chest, he let out a soft moan, wondering how he would manage to find the motivation to get moving.

“d’Artagnan.” Constance announced herself quietly, not wanting to startle her husband. Even from across the room she could she how badly he was feeling and wondered if there was any way she could persuade him to stay in bed.

The Gascon lifted his face towards her, offering a weak smile in greeting. As if already knowing what his wife was thinking, he pre-emptively said, “There’s nothing you can say to convince me to stay here.” Seeing the frown immediately appear on her face, he went on. “Once we’re done with this, I promise you can tuck me into bed until you’re satisfied I’m well enough to leave. But first, I need to do my duty.”

Crossing the distance between them, Constance sat down at his side, grasping one of his cold hands in both of hers. “Surely the others can handle one man on their own,” she began, only to be interrupted by d’Artagnan shaking his head.

Deciding to take a chance, the Gascon said, “Constance, this isn’t the first time I’ve been injured and kept going. During the war…” he trailed off for a moment as he considered how to best explain. “Rest was a luxury we could ill afford. Every missing pistol or sword on the battlefield could mean another’s life.”

Constance bit her lip as she pondered his words, not quite ready yet to give up. “But you’re not at the front anymore.”

Again, d’Artagnan shook his head in disagreement. “We’re still at war, Constance; it’s just the enemies and the battleground that have changed.”

He placed his other hand over hers and squeezed gently. “Please, don’t ask me to stop being who I am, because I’m not sure I could do that.”

Constance lowered her head for several long moments as she batted her eyes against the moisture that had gathered there. Her husband was an impetuous man, but fiercely loyal and dedicated to doing the right thing. It was those qualities that had attracted her to him in the first place, and she could no more ask him to change than she could stop loving him.

Taking another moment to compose herself, she lifted her head and forced any signs of upset from her voice. “We’d best get you dressed then. I imagine the others are impatient to get this dealt with.”

Smiling, d’Artagnan gave her hands another gentle squeeze, leaning over carefully at the same time to place a long, warm kiss on her lips. To his satisfaction, some of the concern had left Constance’s face by the time they parted.

* * *

“Alright, I’ll push ‘im up against the wall and soften ‘im up a little,” Porthos stated outside of the garrison’s storeroom, which doubled as an impromptu prison cell when necessary.

He missed Aramis’ eye roll as d’Artagnan spoke up and distracted him. “Forget softening him up. Let me have a few minutes with him and a dagger. I’d love to return the favour of his _kind_ attention yesterday.”

Aramis’ eyes widened at the suggestion, noting how the Gascon was partially hunched over himself in deference to his broken ribs and stab wound.

“We can’t actually hurt him,” Athos interjected. “I’m sure we can…” He trailed off as his face took on a greenish tinge, and he looked away quickly in anticipation of being sick. Several slow, even breaths later, his pallor improved a little as he staved off another bout of illness.

Taking in the ragged trio, Aramis stepped in front of the group to announce, “All of you will do exactly as I say.” Pointing a finger in Porthos’ direction he continued, “You will abstain from doing anything physical unless someone is in danger of being hurt. You can’t risk doing any more damage to your shoulder.” His glare hardened as the large man drew breath to protest, stopping at the marksman’s intense gaze.

Turning his attention next to the Gascon, he said, “You will not do anything else that might get you hurt, including approaching the prisoner with a sharp object.” Knowing the young man wouldn’t give in so easily, he added, “Unless you’d like me to share your plan with your wife to get her opinion?” d’Artagnan visibly deflated at the threat.

“And you,” Aramis turned finally to Athos. “You…just, don’t talk, prop yourself against something so you don’t fall over, and try not to get sick on anyone.” He turned on his heel and led the way into the storeroom, calling over his shoulder a moment later, “Are you coming?” The three men traded sheepish glances and then followed in the marksman’s wake.

The Musketeer guarding the room opened the door for them and allowed them inside. The space was dim, lit only by a couple of torches near the door and one dusty window that sat high up against the far wall above the prisoner’s head. Frontenac was shackled by a chain leading from his wrist irons to a sturdy bolt in the floor. The arrangement allowed the man to stand and move approximately 3 feet in every direction, keeping him well back from the door.

Aramis positioned himself before the man, one hand resting on his pistol while the other fell to the pommel of his sword. He pinned their prisoner with a hard gaze as he addressed the man. “You’re fortunate that you have something of value to us,” he began, his tone deceptively mild. “The accommodations at the Chatelet are considerably lacking.”

Frontenac sneered in reply as he gathered himself and stood. “You don’t scare me, Musketeer, and there’s nothing you can do to me to unseal my lips.”

“So you’d prefer to be relocated to the Chatelet?” d’Artagnan asked, having positioned himself at the marksman’s left shoulder.

On Aramis’ other side, Porthos stood glaring at the prisoner. “Look, just tell us who hired you to steal that painting.”

“And then what, you’ll let me go?” Frontenac asked derisively, holding his chained wrists up to emphasize his point. When no one replied, he added, “That’s what I thought. Besides, you ain’t got no proof that I stole anything.” He glared defiantly at the men, letting them know he had no intention of cooperating.

Aramis was beginning to wonder if they’d need to rethink their plans when Athos stepped forward. The captain’s face was still uncomfortably pale and a fine sheen of sweat covered his features, letting the marksman know exactly how much pain he was in. About to escort Athos from the room, Aramis paused in surprise when his commander began to speak.

“We know you were involved in the theft, but it’s possible arrangements can be made if it’s recovered,” Athos explained, swallowing uneasily at the end of his statement. He looked away and swayed slightly, Aramis and Porthos immediately moving forward to steady him.

With an almost imperceptible nod of thanks to the men, Athos continued. “Surely you understand it’s in your best interests to cooperate with us.” His last words were somewhat breathy as he fought against the nausea that was churning uncomfortably in his belly.

Nearing the end of his strength, Athos pressed the man, his tone hardening as he said, “Come on, man, you’ve nothing to lose and everything to gain.” He clamped his jaws together as he finished, feeling overly warm as saliva flooded his mouth.

The Musketeers did their best to present an intimidating front, staring expectantly at Frontenac as they waited for him to arrive at a decision. At the same time, Aramis and Porthos closed the gap between themselves and Athos, both wearing increasingly concerned expressions on their faces.

Their prisoner looked over the men before him, clearly weighing his options before reaching a decision. His conclusion was evident on his face as his features hardened before he answered. “No, I’ve got nothing to say to you and there’s nothing you can do to change my mind.” Had his arms been free, he most likely would have crossed them to emphasize his statement.

Athos swayed once more, this time taking a staggering half-step forward before Aramis and Porthos could steady him. The marksman slipped a hand around his captain’s biceps as a worried “Athos” slipped out.

Frontenac shook his head, firming his resolve in the face of the obviously sick man. The captain nodded shakily as though accepting the prisoner’s reply, before gagging as he lost his battle with his queasy stomach. As the first flood of broth and warm bile rushed up his esophagus, he took another staggering step closer to Frontenac. Seconds later, he was being violently ill, their prisoner unable to do more than recoil backwards in a vain attempt to get out of the way.

“Stop him!” Frontenac shrieked as Aramis steadied the sick man while he expelled the contents of his belly.

It took nearly a minute before Athos finished, wiping a hand shakily across his mouth as he panted against the pain. Despite his tremulous state, Athos lifted his head from his chest, pinning his bleary gaze on the cowering prisoner. “While unpleasant for me, I have no doubt it was even more so for you. Tell these men what they want to know, or I’ll be back.” With that he turned unsteadily, Aramis still supporting him with a strong grip on one arm.

As the two men exited, they could hear Frontenac babbling excitedly, no doubt doing exactly as Athos had ordered. Aramis chuckled softly as the door closed behind them, saying to his friend, “That was a most unique method of gaining information.” Athos felt too terrible to comment and merely nodded his head shakily in reply.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to AZGirl for catching my typos; all remaining mistakes are mine.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inhaling deeply, Treville said, “Your Majesty, we do, in fact, have news.”

It was over an hour later when the four men reconvened, this time in the captain’s office. Aramis had made good use of the time by making Athos some ginger tea, the brew finally having calmed the older man’s stomach enough that he’d even consumed some dry bread. It wasn’t much, but the medic was pleased with his friend’s progress, which might eventually allow him to give Athos something for his aching head.

Afterwards, the captain had rested, and he woke feeling much less shaky than before his nap. He had just donned his doublet and weapons belt when d’Artagnan and Porthos arrived, Aramis having stayed to watch over him.

With a brief rap of his knuckles, the Gascon led the way inside. Now that they were once more alone, he allowed more of his pain and fatigue to show, and Aramis frowned at the way the young man seemed to be physically folding in on himself. Porthos was no better and he was cradling his right arm in his left hand, deep lines of pain etched around his eyes and mouth.

“Get in here, both of you,” Aramis chivvied the two men towards chairs. He’d been expecting this and already had full glasses of brandy poured, knowing that none of them would be willing to consume a pain draught while they still had work to do. As he gave the men their glasses, Athos seated himself behind his desk, nodding gratefully at the marksman who’d left a full glass for him as well. While drinking on a nearly empty stomach wasn’t something Aramis would normally encourage, he was counting on Athos’ healthy tolerance to balance out the effects of the strong alcohol.

They drank in silence as Aramis watched over them, evaluating their level of fitness for whatever would be asked of them next. To his relief, the brandy smoothed some of their expressions of pain, and he finally thought it might be possible for them to accomplish what was needed to complete their mission.

Athos set his empty glass down on his desk, carefully leaning back in his chair as he gazed at Porthos and d’Artagnan. “Report.”

“First let me say that was the most disgusting interrogation method I’ve seen in all my years of soldiering,” the larger man began with a grin. “But it worked. Frontenac eventually told us who’d hired him.”

“Along with the names of the other two men involved,” d’Artagnan chimed in.

Porthos’ face grew serious as he said, “Athos, you’re not gonna like this.” Both the captain and Aramis were now leaning forward in anticipation. “It was Feron.” At the announcement, both men drew back again, their earlier suspicions having been confirmed. Despite that, they still had questions.

“Feron?” Aramis repeated. “But he’s the king’s brother.”

d’Artagnan was nodding. “Frontenac didn’t understand either, especially since Feron could have taken the painting any time he wanted.”

“Could he though?” Athos pondered aloud, his mind still not operating as well as he’d like. His comment drew the attention of the other men and he went on. “The stolen portrait is of their father, but the governor is only a half-brother to Louis.”

“Apparently his mother was a chambermaid, making him a bastard and an illegitimate heir to the throne,” Aramis took up the explanation.

“Seems like that would be reason enough for Feron to have to steal the painting, and it’s not surprising he might want a portrait of his father,” Porthos reasoned.

To Athos, the explanation still seemed off, but without additional evidence, he couldn’t offer an alternative rationale for the theft. “We’ll need to present this information to Treville and see how he wants to handle things,” he said instead.

“Why aren’t we just arresting Feron,” d’Artagnan questioned. “We have evidence of his involvement and the king wanted this matter closed as quickly as possible.”

Seeing the weariness on their captain’s face, Aramis replied on his behalf. “Only sharing one parent’s bloodline is still enough to make this situation precarious.”

Porthos nodded in agreement. “Feron might never be king, but that doesn’t mean he’s not powerful in his own right, and he obviously has Louis’ support as governor.”

“We’ll have to tread carefully,” Athos concurred.

“But he’s guilty,” d’Artagnan persisted, unable to see beyond the obvious black and white of the situation.

“He may well be, but Louis won’t like to hear that,” Aramis replied.

“Hope he doesn’t feel like shooting the messenger,” Porthos added morosely. “Sorry,” he said a moment later when he saw the expression on Athos’ face; the captain would likely be the one to have to break the news to the temperamental royal. The older man offered a slight wave of his hand, dismissing the comment.

“Guess we’d better get over to the palace then,” d’Artagnan stated as he rose stiffly from his chair.

“Not quite yet,” the captain replied.

When Athos didn’t say anything more, the Gascon looked to the other two men, neither of which was saying anything. “Alright,” he said, drawing the word out as he carefully retook his seat. “What else is there to discuss?”

“There is the matter of your wet boots,” Athos stated. “So wet, in fact, that your dear wife was able to turn them upside down and water trickled out.”

d’Artagnan’s gaze shifted downwards for a moment to the items in question, before glancing over at the other two men for support. All of his friends now wore expectant expressions, and he swallowed a sigh as he decided how to respond. “Yes, my boots are a little worn,” the Gascon began, already downplaying the situation.

Porthos snorted at the understatement. “If they were any more worn, there wouldn’t be enough to keep them on your feet.” d’Artagnan threw his friend a dirty look at the comment.

“And unless I miss my guess, you’re beginning to feel the effects of running all over Paris with wet feet,” Aramis added, having heard the congestion in the young man’s voice.

“Look, it’s nothing, really,” d’Artagnan tried again, hating to be the centre of attention over his pathetically old and tired footwear. “I was planning to replace them anyway.”

Athos narrowed his eyes at the younger man, not wanting to embarrass him, but needing him to understand the severity of the situation. “d’Artagnan, a soldier is only as good as his equipment. If you needed new boots, you should have said something.”

The Gascon flushed at the comment, nodding even as he looked away from the older man’s gaze. “I know; it’s just…” He trailed off, hating that he would have to tell his friends about his financial troubles. Worrying his lip for a moment, he finally continued. “It’s been something of an _adjustment_ to stretch my stipend to cover both mine and Constance’s expenses, especially now that we’re back in Paris. I was going to ask her to look for a gently worn pair for me when she’s next at the market.”

Athos gave Aramis a meaningful nod, and the latter man moved into the captain’s sleeping area, returning several seconds later holding a pair of boots. He settled them down beside d’Artagnan’s chair as he said, “Those should fit you.”

At the Gascon’s look of confusion, Athos explained, “The garrison has always had an allowance to replace old equipment when necessary. It’s not something that’s widely known given that most of those receiving their commission have some form of family income. For those who do not, we provide.” He looked meaningfully at the new pair of boots.

Rising from his chair, Porthos walked over to d’Artagnan, clapping the younger man fondly on one shoulder. “All you had to do was ask.”

The Gascon nodded dumbly, still stunned at the new footwear and at what he’d been told. Moving his gaze between his friends, he found his voice again. “Thank you. I didn’t know.”

Athos offered a soft, “You’re welcome.”

“Put those new boots on, d’Artagnan,” Aramis ordered, already moving towards Porthos. “That will give me enough time to bind Porthos’ arm and make sure Athos doesn’t keel over on our way to the palace.”

The captain watched as the medic fussed over the larger man, while d’Artagnan moved slowly to divest himself of his old boots, wondering the entire time exactly how he would break the news of the thief’s identity to the king.

* * *

Their trek back to the palace had been both good and bad. While the fresh air had served to revive them, the continued cold and dampness kept them quiet in their misery. Worse yet, d’Artagnan was starting to feel the effects of whatever illness was plaguing him and he shivered in his cloak, the garment wrapped tightly around his lean frame as water once more trickled from his hair and dripped from his nose. His discomfort was only compounded by the steady throb emanating from his ribs and knife wound, and he cradled his side with one hand as they walked.

Porthos was just as inwardly focused as the Gascon, each step jarring the strained muscles of his shoulder, despite the support Aramis had insisted on providing. Sadly, the brandy’s effects in numbing the joint had been brief, and it now seemed like the cold air was seeping through his cloak and doublet to stiffen the muscles beneath until they resembled nothing more than a tightly tangled knot of flesh and bone.

Aramis remained next to Athos, the two men walking slightly behind the others so he could keep an eye on them. The captain was doing remarkably well given his earlier condition, although the marksman still steadied him on the odd occasion. As far as he could tell, Athos’ biggest problem now was the nagging headache that plagued him, which was unfortunately likely to continue for several more days. The thought had Aramis sighing loudly as he contemplated his friends’ ragged states.

Athos caught the sound of his friend’s exhale and looked over. “We’re fine, Aramis,” he assured the man, understanding well how much he worried about them. “Once this affair has been put to rest, we’ll all take a few days’ rest and heal.”

“Assuming that we can get the others to agree,” the marksman replied, looking pointedly in Porthos and d’Artagnan’s direction.

“Constance will ensure her husband’s agreement,” the captain replied. “Besides, I think we’ll be together more often than not.”

Aramis nodded in agreement with Athos’ words. The days of d’Artagnan dealing with his demons alone were past, and his brothers wouldn’t allow the young man to push them away again.

Soon, they’d arrived at the palace, and they eagerly entered, grateful to be out of the rain.

“Seems like we just did this,” Porthos remarked as he gently shook his hat to get rid of some of the rain. Aramis and d’Artagnan smiled wanly at his comment and then fell into step behind Athos who was leading the way to Treville’s office.

Aramis was the last to enter, and he firmly closed the door behind him, not wanting anyone to overhear the news they had to share. By the time he’d joined the others in front of Treville’s desk, the minister had stood to await Athos’ report.

“You’ve identified the thief?” Treville asked.

Athos nodded and then glanced quickly in his friends’ direction before turning his attention back to the minister. “A man named Frontenac, with the aid of two others.” He paused for a moment and Treville raised an expectant eyebrow, already anticipating the captain had more to share. “They were hired by Governor Feron.”

“Feron?” Treville repeated, a look of confusion and concern marring his features. “That makes things…_complicated_.”

Athos gave another tilt of his head, having already come to the same conclusion. Before he could respond, d’Artagnan spoke up, his voice gravelly as illness took hold. “Maybe we could just find and recover the painting, without naming Feron as the person behind the theft?”

“That could work,” Aramis concurred, one hand stroking his beard in contemplation.

“We’d need access to Feron’s quarters,” Porthos chimed in. “Assuming he still has it.”

d’Artagnan’s brow furrowed at the odd comment. “Why wouldn’t he have it?” He coughed softly at the end of his question, smothering the sound with one hand, while the other braced his ribs. Porthos threw a look of worry in the young man’s direction before shrugging in reply.

“You raise a good point,” Treville noted. “If Feron is concerned about being found out as the thief, he’d move the portrait somewhere it won’t easily be found.”

“Even if we could locate it, would the king be satisfied with Frontenac and the others’ imprisonment?” Athos asked.

“Plus, he didn’t really strike me as the loyal sort,” Porthos added. “We’d have no way of stopping him from using his knowledge of his employer’s identity to his advantage.”

d’Artagnan coughed again, his throat growing irritably dry, which was ironic given the torrents of rain they’d been dealing with. Ignoring Aramis’ concerned expression, he said, “Maybe we could negotiate with him for a lighter sentence. As far as we know, Frontenac’s accomplices don’t have Feron’s name and he was the only one in contact with the governor.”

Before the others could comment, the door to Treville’s office was flung open, prompting everyone in the room to reach for their pistols. It was only due to their restraint that the king wasn’t faced with five armed men when he entered unannounced, not even noticing how everyone’s hands laid on their weapons.

“Musketeers, I understand the culprit has been found,” he announced, wearing his trademark grin and clapping his hands in anticipation of receiving good news.

The men hastily bowed in deference to the royal’s presence, the injured men nowhere near as graceful as usual, but managing a decent display of respect all the same. As they straightened, Athos and Treville traded hasty glances, not having had time to arrive at a course of action. The former was relieved when the minister moved out from behind his desk, clearly intending to take the lead on dealing with the king.

Treville’s mind was racing as he contemplated what information to share. d’Artagnan’s ideas had merit, but they needed time to put it into action. Had the king not gotten wind of the Musketeers’ presence, they might have had that time, but with his unexpected arrival, that option was all but taken from them.

Alternatively, he could try to stall, discarding the option almost as soon as the thought entered his head, since he didn’t know exactly what the king had been told about the soldiers’ reason for being there. There was, of course, always the possibility of simply giving Frontenac’s name, but without recovering the portrait, the man’s imprisonment was unlikely to satisfy the demanding royal.

Clearly, no matter which option he chose, there were risks for himself, but more importantly, for his men. Inhaling deeply, Treville said, “Your Majesty, we do, in fact, have news.”

To be continued...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to AZGirl for catching my typos; all remaining mistakes are mine.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scrubbing a hand across his face, he contemplated where to begin, finally settling on directness and honesty.

With only a scant rap on Treville’s door, the heavy wooden barrier swung inwards once more, this time revealing the hunched form of the governor. The man shuffled slowly as he made his way inside, though his hawk-like eyes darted between the minister and the Musketeers.

“Philippe, what are you doing here?” the king asked, not at all concerned by his half-brother’s appearance and genuinely curious about his presence.

Feron continued his laborious movement forwards, nodding in unspoken thanks when Aramis pushed a chair towards him so he could sit down. “I understand that the Musketeers have information to share,” he replied breathlessly, lowering himself less than gracefully onto the proffered seat. Settling his walking stick in front of him, he propped both hands on it as he continued, “Besides, it’s not polite to talk about one behind one’s back, hmm.” He directed the last part of his comment at Treville, causing the minister to raise an eyebrow in surprise.

“What do you mean?” Louis asked, looking between Feron and Treville. “Explain already.”

“Your Majesty,” Treville began. “I believe what the Governor is referring to is the fact that the man we apprehended has identified him as the person behind the theft.” He watched Feron carefully as he spoke, looking for any indication of the man’s intentions. The governor surprised him further by offering a smile along with a tilt of his head.

Shifting his gaze to the king, Feron said, “Treville is quite right, and my congratulations to your Musketeers for solving this crime in a _reasonable_ amount of time.” He waved a hand in the general direction of the soldiers as he spoke, his actions and tone conveying disdain in spite of his words.

“But, I don’t understand,” Louis sputtered, his expression reflecting his confusion. “Why would you steal from me, brother?”

His features rearranged themselves into a look of contrition, as Feron answered. “It was never my intention, Your Majesty. I’d planned to speak to you about the painting, but the men I’d hired to relocate it to my quarters acted before I had a chance to do so.” He paused for a moment, looking down and shaking his head, his entire demeanor screaming of remorse.

Treville and the Musketeers could only watch as Feron explained, certain that every word the man uttered was a lie. “You see, brother,” the governor’s expression turned morose as he continued. “Our dear, late father has been on my mind a great deal recently, and I was simply hoping to have a portrait of him to gaze upon each evening when I retire to my quarters. I’m terribly sorry for all the commotion I seemed to have caused.”

He stopped speaking then, holding Louis’ gaze as he silently pleaded with the royal for forgiveness. The others remained quiet as they waited for the king’s reaction, the man too temperamental for them to be able to predict how he’d respond.

Several long seconds went by before Louis telegraphed his thoughts through the expression on his face. Striding closer to stand next to Feron, the king placed one hand on his sibling’s shoulder. “Philippe, you had only to ask and I would have happily arranged to have papa’s portrait delivered to your rooms.” The tension flowed out of the Musketeers’ bodies, only to be replaced by frustration with Louis’ response.

“I know how hard it was for you to be raised apart from him and the rest of us,” the king continued, empathy dripping from his words. “If our father’s portrait gives you comfort, then I’m happy for you to have it.”

Realizing that Feron was about to get away the crime, d’Artagnan interjected. “But Your Majesty, the governor had people come into the palace and take something of yours without permission. Are we not all equal under the law?”

Too late, Athos moved closer to the Gascon, placing a restraining hand on his shoulder that begged him to stop talking. Louis’ expression hardened as he addressed the pair, his tone returning to its normal commanding one. “As your king, it is my responsibility to administer the law, and I have decided this matter is closed.” Athos gave d’Artagnan’s shoulder another warning squeeze to say no more.

“Your Majesty, what of the men who committed this act against the crown?” Treville asked, hoping to distract the royal from the Musketeers.

Waving a hand dismissively, the royal replied, “I have just proclaimed that there was no crime. Therefore, you have no reason to hold the men involved. Really, Treville, it’s times like these I have to wonder about you.” Turning on his heel, he threw over his shoulder, “Come along, Phillipe. Now that I have an empty spot in the grand hall, you can help me decide what to hang in place of father’s portrait.”

Feron struggled to his feet, smirking at the men before turning and following the king. When the door had heavily closed behind the men, d’Artagnan was the first to speak. “How can he do that?” he asked, his face etched with pain as he forced his broken ribs to expand beyond where was comfortable as he ranted. “Feron admitted to being a thief and the king just lets him get away with it?”

Treville pressed his fingers against the bridge of his nose for a moment, trying in vain to push away the headache that throbbed against his temples. A glance in Athos’ direction showed the man in a similar condition, and he was reminded that the mission, though short, had taken a toll on the men. Dropping his hand to his side, Treville said, “Leave it alone, d’Artagnan. This was a matter of blood, not justice, and whether we like it or not, we serve at the king’s pleasure.”

“But it’s wrong,” the Gascon gasped out before being seized by a bout of coughing, Aramis immediately moving to his side to steady him as he tried to fold inwards in deference to his injuries. Once d’Artagnan’s coughing had ended, the marksman sought out Treville. “We need to get him back to the garrison before he gets any worse.”

Casting an eye across the others, Treville nodded. “Seems like they all need some of your care, Aramis.” The medic offered a tight smile in reply. “Get them back, and I don’t want to see any of you for at least two days.”

He received nods from Porthos and Aramis, the latter man already nudging d’Artagnan into motion as he led the way to the door. Athos hung back for a few moments as he sought out Treville’s gaze, the two men agreeing without words that nothing else could have been done. With a curt nod to his former captain, Athos followed the others out, weary and disheartened by the less than satisfactory conclusion to their mission.

* * *

The Musketeers endured another thorough soaking on their return trip to the garrison, the skies opening up as if in solidarity with the men’s foul moods. Aramis didn’t even waste his breath making requests of them once they’d passed through the main gates and into the courtyard, merely motioning to Porthos to head to his room while he chivvied d’Artagnan towards his quarters. As he’d anticipated, Athos followed along behind him without needing to be ordered, his concern for the Gascon providing all the incentive required.

Constance must have been expecting them and had stoked up the fire in anticipation of their arrival. Wordlessly, she took her husband from Aramis’ guiding hands, leading him to the bed chamber where she stripped him of his wet outer clothes. By the time she’d tucked the ailing man into bed, Athos had also been divested of his soggy cloak and doublet and he headed directly in where he took a seat next to the bed. Aramis and Constance exchanged brief smiles over the captain’s head at the man’s single-minded focus on the Gascon.

“I’ve kept some broth warming,” Constance announced as she departed the room, leaving Aramis alone with the men for a few minutes. Upon her return, her expression was bemused when she discovered Athos tucked into bed next to her husband.

She brought the tray she carried to the bedside table, first setting it down before picking up a cup of broth that she brought to d’Artagnan. Motioning to the remaining items, she addressed the marksman, “There’s more broth for Athos and hot water in case you’re wanting to mix up something more.” Aramis smiled in gratitude at her forethought, immediately withdrawing several small pouches from his inner pockets which he intended to mix up for his friends.

With Constance and Aramis working together, it didn’t take long for both men to finish their light meal, for them to consume subsequent draughts for their lingering pain, and for d’Artagnan’s chest to be covered in a pungent liniment that would ease his breathing. As they drifted off into a deep sleep, Aramis rose from his spot at Athos’ side and said, “I’ll bring dinner with me when I return.”

Constance offered a dip of her head in acknowledgement, knowing that the marksman would spend the next few hours with Porthos before returning to watch over the two men currently in her care. “Make sure you get some rest, too,” she called softly to him as he approached the doorway. Although she couldn’t see the smile that her comment provoked, she was certain of its presence on the marksman’s face.

* * *

He was certain that waking and opening his eyes was one of the hardest things he’d ever done. Even after he’d pried his gummy lids apart, the best he could manage was to blink lazily as the world around him slowly came into sharper focus. Everything his eyes landed on seemed to be encased in fog, including his body which felt incredibly heavy, leaving him with a sense of being disconnected from himself.

A deeper inhale swept all of the heavy lethargy away instantaneously as his chest seized and he found himself helplessly coughing. Moments later, he was assailed with a feeling of vertigo as his body was shifted without his volition. He jerked at the sensation but then realized that his new position was allowing air into his lungs.

He savoured the sweet sensation, greedily inhaling until a voice penetrated his murky thoughts. “Slowly, d’Artagnan, or you’ll find yourself choking again.” Though it felt like he wasn’t getting enough oxygen, he did as the voice commanded, forcing himself to inhale and exhale more slowly.

“Excellent,” the voice praised, and he could feel himself being settled back against the support of something soft.

He prised his lids open once more, not even realizing until that moment that they had been closed. Athos’ concerned face met his blurry gaze, and he found himself blinking dazedly as his fuzzy brain caught up with what he was seeing. “’Thos?” he finally managed to breathe out, bringing a faint smile of relief to the older man’s face.

“It’s good to have you back,” Athos replied, sinking down onto the bed beside the Gascon’s hip.

The comment brought a frown to d’Artagnan’s face, and he noticed for the first time how haggard his friend appeared. “Athos?” he repeated, the man’s name this time carrying with it all the questions he was too tired to voice. _Why do you look so tired? Is everyone alright? Why do I feel so terrible?_

It was a testament to their strong bond that Athos understood the unspoken questions and began to explain. “Peace, d’Artagnan, everyone is well. Constance and Aramis will be along shortly, and they’ll be relieved to see you awake.” The reply made the young man’s brow furrow again. “Your lovely wife had some business to attend to at the marketplace, and Aramis is catching up on his sleep.”

The information, while abundant, still wasn’t making sense to the Gascon. Fortunately, the marksman appeared just then, a wide grin on his face when he saw d’Artagnan’s eyes open. “What our dear captain is trying and failing to explain is that we’ve been taking turns staying with you while you’ve been battling a rather nasty fever. Now that you’re starting to feel better, I’m certain that Athos will finally take my advice and get some proper rest - _in his own bed_.” The marksman stressed the last part of his statement, glaring at the older man as he did so.

Athos didn’t offer a response either way and questioned instead, “How is Porthos today?”

Aramis’ grinned broadened as he replied, “He continues to improve. The strength of his grip is growing as is his range of mobility.”

“That is exceptionally good news,” the captain breathed out, his shoulders hunching somewhat. d’Artagnan frowned at how much tension seemed to flow out of his friend, startled a moment later when he realized just how much the condition of his men affected Athos.

From the thoughtful expression on Aramis’ face, it was clear the marksman had noticed as well. “Now that Porthos and d’Artagnan are both on the mend, why don’t you go and get some rest. I want to examine our young Gascon anyway, and Constance will be returning soon.”

Athos found d’Artagnan’s gaze and held it, as if asking for permission to leave the young man’s side. With a faint grin, the Gascon said, “It’s alright, Athos; you should go.” A few moments later the captain gave a weary nod and rose to his feet.

Before the older man could do any more than turn and take a single step from the bed, d’Artagnan spoke again. “Athos, can you tell me before you go, what happened to the Red Guards who attacked me?”

The captain’s face fell at the question, and he glanced in Aramis’ direction, hoping for a reprieve. Seeing the expression on the older man’s face, the marksman said, “Why don’t we discuss this later, d’Artagnan? I’d really like to look you over and get some food into you before you drift off again.”

The Gascon’s features grew concerned, already sensing that the men were trying to keep something from him. “Athos,” he said, his tone warning the other man that he would not be put off so easily.

Sighing, Athos addressed the marksman. “Why don’t you go find something for your patient to eat? That will give us time for our conversation.” Though Aramis wanted to protest, the determined looks on both men’s faces deterred him from doing so. With a resigned nod, he left the two alone.

Athos returned to d’Artagnan’s side, this time opting to sit in the chair next to the bed. Scrubbing a hand across his face, he contemplated where to begin, finally settling on directness and honesty. He met the young man’s gaze and drew breath to explain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to AZGirl for catching my typos; all remaining mistakes are mine.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Athos’ voice was soft and full of empathy as he asked, “This is not the first time Louis has disappointed you, is it?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who has read, commented and left kudos. I hope you enjoy how this story wraps up.

“I want you to understand that Treville’s role as minister can be a perilous one, especially with Feron as governor,” Athos began, catching d’Artagnan off guard with the odd change in topic. “I believe you’ll agree that was apparent by the king’s reaction to his half-brother’s confession.” There seemed to be a hint of a question in Athos’ tone so the Gascon dutifully nodded in reply.

“I am certain I speak for all of us when I say that no one expected this mission to end the way it did.” The older man trailed off as he recalled the smirk of satisfaction on Feron’s face when he’d realized his victory.

Thinking Athos had paused so he could respond, d’Artagnan said, “I still can’t believe the king would let Feron get away with stealing from him.” He picked angrily at a loose thread on the blanket that covered him, momentarily forgetting his earlier question about the Red Guards, and getting caught up in the emotion attached to their interactions with the royal in Treville’s office.

Athos’ voice was soft and full of empathy as he asked, “This is not the first time Louis has disappointed you, is it?”

The Gascon’s head came up from where he’d been staring at his lap, startled by the older man’s question. After several long moments, he replied, “No, I suppose not, even though I can’t exactly let that be common knowledge.”

The captain smiled mirthlessly in response, having been the one to give d’Artagnan that advice several years earlier. Seemingly changing the topic again, Athos asked, “You realize Treville would have to expend a great deal of political capital to go up against Feron?”

Once more, the Gascon’s expression was confused, but Athos didn’t leave him waiting for long. “The Red Guards who attacked you will not be facing any sort of disciplinary action.”

d’Artagnan straightened with tension, his injuries immediately letting him know what a bad idea that was. “Damnit,” he gasped, the sudden flare of pain he experienced causing his lungs to seize and leaving him coughing helplessly once more.

Just like the last time, Athos patiently held the young man upright as he coached him to slow his breathing. As before, the tightness in d’Artagnan’s chest eventually eased and he slumped back tiredly against his pillows when Athos shifted him backwards. Athos then reached for a cup already filled with water, and helped the young man take a drink to soothe his dry throat.

The Gascon nodded in gratitude before rubbing a hand across his face and then upwards, through his lanky hair, grimacing with distaste at the sensation. Letting his arm drop back to his side, he gazed blearily at his captain. “What’s wrong with me?”

Athos offered a compassionate smile as he replied, “You grew very ill, very quickly and have been battling a fever and cough for the last two days.”

d’Artagnan offered a soft huff, careful not to antagonize his rebellious lungs. “That certainly explains why I feel like I’ve been run over by a herd of horses.”

The older man’s expression immediately turned guilty and contrite, feeling instantly remorseful for having such a serious conversation while the younger man was still so ill. Noticing the look on his friend’s face, the Gascon hurriedly said, “No, Athos, I didn’t mean we shouldn’t talk. I still want to understand what happened, and why nothing will be done about the Red Guards.”

Athos let out a long sigh, unhappy about the conversation they needed to have yet resigned to having it. He gave the Gascon a short nod in understanding. “The minister approached Feron about the incident, which was, of course, fervently denied. The governor backed the Red Guards’ actions, asserting vehemently that the men had been acting appropriately in the performance of their duties.”

d’Artagnan was tempted to loudly protest, but his most recent bout of coughing had him showing restraint and staying quiet while he waited for Athos to go on.

“Treville could have pressed the situation by bringing the matter to the king’s attention, but it would have cost him much to do so,” the captain explained, hoping for the Gascon’s comprehension. Moments later, he was rewarded as understanding dawned on the young man’s face.

“And it was political capital Treville couldn’t afford to use on my situation, because he might need it later for something more important,” d’Artagnan said, relieving Athos of the need to continue. Athos nodded, pleased that the young man had understood without being told, but also disappointed that things had turned out the way they had.

d’Artagnan shook his head before letting it drop back to rest of the stack of pillows supporting him, his unfocused gaze directed above him at the ceiling. Although he had no memory of the last two days, the ones before it were crystal clear in his memory, and they stank headily of disappointment. Having to chase a half-starved thief; getting beaten by soldiers who had no sense of honor and would not be punished; and a powerful man who’d been allowed to get away with a crime against the crown for no other reason than his and a shared lineage. “This just seems so…” He trailed off, unable to put his thoughts into words as he battled a strong wave of despair.

“Unjust?” Athos offered kindly, receiving a short nod in reply. “d’Artagnan, life is a series of choices, some good and some bad. Many are easy because the right choice is obvious. It’s those that force us to pick between two undesirable options that truly test us. That is the nature of trouble.” The Gascon’s head had lolled to one side as the older man had spoken, and Athos could see he had his friend’s full attention.

“You were happy when the young thief in the marketplace escaped, and had chased him only because duty dictated that you must. Though you did your duty, your failure to catch the boy still had consequences for you,” the captain continued. “Treville wanted Feron and the Red Guards to face the consequences of their actions, but to pursue that outcome could have put him, and possibly us, into untenable positions. He made the best choices he could, as did you, even if the results appear to contradict that.” Pausing for a moment, he asked, “Knowing what you know now, would you change what you did or ask Treville to act differently?”

The older man leaned back in his chair when he was done, the conversation having worn him out and feeling even more weary than he’d been before. Although they’d taken it in turns to sit by the young man’s side, Athos had been there almost constantly, refusing to leave for more than a few short periods of time when it became obvious that his presence was the only thing that truly settled d’Artagnan in his delirium.

Aramis and Constance had done their best to help out, but it had been Athos’ touch that calmed d’Artagnan when his fever spiked, and it was Athos’ voice that persuaded him to drink. The former noble had been concerned his presence might cause a rift between the married couple, but Constance had reassured him almost at once, thanking him for being there for her husband while assuring him that she felt no ill will against him.

He’d pushed himself to his limits and then beyond in his efforts to help the Gascon recover, but he felt close to his breaking point now, his head throbbing painfully with stress and a lack of sleep. d’Artagnan’s quiet voice broke him from his reverie and he met the young man’s gaze.

“No, I wouldn’t change a thing,” the Gascon replied. “And I wouldn’t ask Treville to do anything differently either.” He reached a hand towards the older man, Athos clasping his wrist comfortingly and giving it a gentle squeeze.

The door opened then, letting Constance and Aramis in, the two smiling at the sight that greeted them. Whether Athos was too tired to care, or hadn’t noticed they were no longer alone, he kept his hand exactly where it was.

“We’ve brought dinner,” Aramis announced as he entered the room, Constance following in his wake. As he was settling his tray on the table, Porthos appeared as though having been summoned, prompting the marksman to laugh softly at the uncanny timing.

Giving one last comforting squeeze, Athos released his hold on d’Artagnan’s arm, leaning back and letting the sounds of his friends’ – no, his family’s - conversation flow over him.

* * *

“Ah, you see, canvases for paintings can be expensive and Marie de Medici was perhaps not quite as naïve as some would believe,” Feron explained to Grimaud as another man worked intently on the recovered painting.

Feron carefully stood and then hobbled painfully to where the portrait rested, positioning himself behind an unidentified man Grimaud didn’t recognize. Curiosity tugged at him, and he moved closer as well, wanting to know what was being done to the painting. To Lucien’s amazement, the man had removed a portion of the painting, revealing something else painted underneath.

Feron turned to Grimaud with a satisfied smirk on his face. “You see?” he asked, pointing to the small circle through which another image could be seen.

Lucien lifted one brow in question. “Another artist’s work?”

“Indeed,” the governor stated smugly. “By a far better-known painter than the one commissioned by Marie de Medici. Interestingly enough, one of the king’s favorite paintings went missing around the same time that this one came into being.”

“She wouldn’t dare,” Grimaud stated in disbelief.

“Ah, but she would, and she did,” Feron countered, his grin widening. “I believe the appropriate sentiment here is that Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.”

“Incredible,” Lucien replied,

“And our good fortune,” Feron responded, turning serious once more. “Our endeavours are expensive, and the sale of this piece will garner an impressive sum. You are to accompany Pascale here,” he motioned towards the unknown man who’d now stepped back from the painting. “You will take him to the port at Calais where you will meet the interested buyer. Assuming he has the promised amount, Pascale will finish his work there before the two of you return to Paris. Understood?”

Grimaud gave a curt nod. At Feron’s uplifted hand, the man knew to take his leave and he ushered the other man out of the room with him. By then, Pascale had already removed the canvas from its frame, rolling it up for easy transport, and then refilled the empty frame with an inexpensive copy he’d made, this one a passing duplicate of the painting the governor had stolen from Louis.

“A son’s love for his father,” Feron snorted inelegantly at the ridiculous notion as he made his way laboriously back to his seat. He had no affection for the man who’d sired him but had used the excuse easily enough to escape Louis’ wrath. The king had, of course, believed him and forgiven him his transgression. “Simple fool,” Feron spat with derision as he marvelled at how easily he’d been able to manipulate his half-brother. “Paris is on the cusp of change, Louis,” he said softly to himself. “Soon, brother, soon.”

End.

* * *

For those of you who are interested, below is the list of prompt's from AZGirl that inspired this story. I didn't quite manage to fit them all in, but hopefully squeezed in enough to satisfy the birthday girl.

1\. Focus on d'Artagnan and/or Athos  
2\. Weather: rain and/or hail  
3\. Walk or run everywhere. Basically, not ride horses as a mode of transportation.  
4\. For at least one of the four guys, there is a ridiculous/humorous reason why they're not riding a horse.  
5\. A stolen painting or sculpture of great value  
6\. Mistaken identity in terms of appearance (e.g. looking identical, or nearly identical, to each other but not related).  
7\. A parrot who wears an eye patch and always insults people when it talks.  
8\. Someone says: "Nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition."  
9\. A character similar to the Black Knight in "Monty Python and the Holy Grail" who keeps fighting even when he is wounded and refuses to give up. Feel free to use one of his memorable lines (e.g. "none shall pass", "'tis but a scratch", "it's just a flesh wound", etc.)  
10\. Choose 1-2 of the following from MPatHG and use them as inspiration for scenes in the story. Feel free to use any other bits not listed from MPatHG or something from another MP movie or the show.  
\- "Come and see the violence inherent in the system. Help! Help! I'm being repressed."  
\- "I'm French, why do you think I have this outrageous accent you silly king." – puppet show at the pub where they find pirate guy – use lines in the show between Spanish and French kings – Athos "That's treason." To this line. Other guy shrugging, "It's only a show. Besides, Louis wins in the end."  
\- "Now, go away, or I'll taunt you a second time."  
\- "What are you going to do, bleed on me?"  
\- "What is the airspeed velocity of an unladen swallow?"  
\- "Bring out your dead."  
\- "Then shalt thou count to three, no more, no less. Three shall be the number thou shalt count, and the number of the counting shall be three. Four shalt thou not count, neither count thou two, excepting that thou then proceed to three. Five is right out! ..."

**Author's Note:**

> Given real life's demands, chapters will be posted twice weekly, on Sundays and Thursday. Thanks for reading and I'd love to hear your thoughts if you're so inclined.


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